Kirkwood
by Tara Majiere
Summary: A Dragon Age Western!  Clara Hawke wants nothing more than to save her father's ranch from foreclosure and raise her horses in peace.  But then a scarred stranger arrives in town and they discover they have enemies in common.
1. Chapter 1

Clara Hawke was among the last to linger at the graveside. One by one and in small groups, the black-garbed townsfolk trickled away after paying their last respects, toward the square in front of the church where several of the women were serving refreshments. _What is it about funerals and food? _Clara wondered dully. She, herself, didn't care if she ever ate again.

Not only was she burying her fiancée today, she was burying all her hope.

Father Vael stood next to her, comfortingly gripping her hand and offering silent comfort with his solid presence. She had barely heard his sermon, or his graveside prayers, remembering only "Holy Father, gather the soul of our brother Fergus Cousland to your side, to take his place in Heaven" before her mind tuned out and she heard no more words.

"Clara," his accented voice murmured to her now. He pronounced it _Clah-rrha_, and she had always found it endearing. "It does no good to linger here. Fergus has gone on to his Lord's embrace, and is far beyond our reach now. Let me take you back to your friends and family, that you may find comfort there."

He tugged gently on her hand, and she allowed him to steer her around the open grave back toward the church. Indeed, she glimpsed Murdock, the gravedigger (caretaker was his more polite official title), waiting a discreet distance away for the funeral to be over. She imagined that he was anxious to finish the burial so he could get home in time for supper. It was hard for her to remember that not everyone was living in a constant state of near despair, as she now was.

Halfway back to the church, Clara glanced up to see a large carriage emerge from behind the general store and pull to a stop at the edge of the cemetery. The matched team of bay horses pranced in place, kicking up small puffs of dust with their shiny hooves. She recognized the horses, and the carriage, immediately as belonging to Bryce and Eleanor Cousland, Fergus' parents. Her future in-laws, now never to be.

She then saw Bryce and Eleanor themselves, walking sedately toward the carriage as the driver leapt nimbly to the ground and swept open the carriage door. Apparently they had no plans to attend their son's wake.

"Father, you go on ahead. I need to speak with Fergus' parents for a moment," Clara said, gently reclaiming her hand. Father Vael let go, and doubtfully glanced at the Couslands' carriage before nodding.

"All right, Clara," he agreed. "I'll just go and see how your mother is doing."

"Thank you," she called back over her shoulder, already walking quickly toward the packed dirt street, where Bryce had handed Eleanor into the carriage and was just pulling himself inside to settle next to her.

Clara reached the carriage just in time to prevent the driver from shutting the door.

"Mr. Cousland, Mrs. Cousland, may I have a word?"

Eleanor, her face streaked with tears, barely glanced at Clara. Bryce looked up at her with an expression of barely disguised impatience. "Can this wait for another time?" he asked, tiredly.

"I won't be but a moment. Please?"

Bryce sighed heavily as Eleanor dabbed at her face with an embroidered handkerchief. "What is it then, Miss Hawke?"

"I…wanted to discuss with you certain arrangements that Fergus and I had made," Clara explained. "For after we were married. Regarding my property. My ranch."

Clara heard a sudden intake of breath from Eleanor, and Bryce shot her a cold look. "Miss Hawke," he asked in a tone that sent shivers of ice down Clara's spine and nearly crumbled her resolve, "are you approaching me at my son's funeral to ask for money?"

"I…simply wanted to ascertain the status of our agreement…" Clara stammered.

"There is no agreement," he cut in.

"But Fergus wanted-"

"Whatever my son promised you in exchange for your hand," Bryce continued, a definite sneer on his face now, "you can consider it null and void. I'm sure you were very proud of yourself, but he is dead now. You will receive nothing from him, or us. Perhaps you should seek out another wealthy suitor, and hope he is not killed as well. Good day."

He gestured impatiently to his driver, who slammed the carriage door shut. Bryce pulled the curtains closed, blocking their view of her, and a few moments later, the carriage pulled away from her with a lurch.

Clara stared after it, feeling blank inside. She hadn't expected a favorable response, but she had had to know for certain. Perhaps it was in bad taste to ask them at the funeral, she admitted to herself. If she weren't so _desperate_…

Shaking her head, Clara tried to shove the Couslands out of her thoughts. After all, when had they ever treated her with any kindness or respect? Even when Fergus had announced their engagement, his face shining with happiness, they had simply plastered on weak smiles and offered token words of congratulations. Delirious with joy, Fergus hadn't noticed how those fake smiles had disappeared once his back was turned, nor the venomous glances they shot at Clara. Fergus had smiled at her, smiled so broadly and beautifully, that Clara was reassured that this was the right decision, it _was_, and never mind the fact that she did not love him in return.

The sunlight had begun to take on the amber glow of late afternoon. Clara could hear voices from the direction of the square, mostly low and somber, but every once in a while, a laugh rang out. Even at a funeral, people must find humor in something. She herself had never felt less like laughing.

She began to move toward the sound of voices, but when her feet took her back into the cemetery instead, she did not protest. She allowed them to guide her back past the open grave, where Murdock glanced up at her in surprise and bowed his head with a muttered "ma'am" as she passed, back to the very farthest corner of the cemetery, where they stopped in front of another grave. This one was not a fresh grave, but the way the ground still raised slightly up beneath the covering of new grass showed that it was not all that old, either. The headstone read:

MALCOLM HAWKE

TREASURED HUSBAND OF LEANDRA

BELOVED FATHER

Clara sank to her knees before the headstone, stroking it gently. "Hello, Father," she murmured. "It's Clara. I suppose you know by now that Fergus is gone. If you see him up there, tell him…just tell him I'm sorry I didn't love him. I wish I could have. He was a kind, gentle man, and he certainly loved me."

Clara paused, collecting her thoughts, letting a small breeze brush a lock of hair across her face. She plucked up a blade of grass and began twirling it around her finger. "We were each getting what we wanted most. And it is still what I want most, Father. The ranch, Rainesfere. _Your_ ranch. And now…I don't know what I'm going to do."

She glanced up at the afternoon sky, at the wispy clouds scattered among the blue. On a day like this, she thought, she and Father would have been working with the horses all day, together, discussing each one like they were proud teachers talking about their star pupils. They would have been caught up in the world of hooves, dust, and sunshine, and forgetting there were such things as mortgage payments, impatient bankers, or illness. She remembered many such days, always with sadness that she would never share one with him again.

"_Clara_?"

At the faint call from the direction of the church, Clara smiled at the headstone. "Well, Father, here comes Bethany to collect me. She'll be concerned about me, and maybe wondering why I'm at your grave instead of Fergus'. Ah, well. Good night, Father."

"Clara?" Closer now.

Clara let the grass blade fall from her fingers and rose to her feet. She turned to see Bethany approaching, with, as she had predicted, her forehead wrinkled from worry. As she closed the distance between them, Bethany said," Are you all right, sister? Mother's worried for you. Carver even asked where you were, although I'm not sure I could call him worried."

"Carver wouldn't worry about me if I fell off a cliff," Clara answered wryly, brushing dust from her somber black skirt. Her funeral skirt. "Luckily, I have you to worry enough for everyone." She smiled at Bethany, who slipped an arm around her in a comforting hug.

"Come on. You must be hungry by now. I think Mother's tiring. We should take her home as soon as you've had a bite to eat." Bethany urged her away from the grave, and Clara allowed herself to be guided back toward the church, arm in arm with her younger sister.

A short time later, Clara held a cup of tea in one hand, but her other hand was constantly being shaken, held, or patted by the never-ending stream of mourners who came to pay their respects. Since Fergus' parents had absented themselves, Clara was being considered official next-of-kin, apparently. As she graciously accepted condolences from what seemed like a thousand people (_it can't be a thousand people, there aren't nearly that many in this whole town_), her face had begun to hurt from the smile she had forced onto it.

A warm voice from behind her said, "Your face is going to shatter if you don't get rid of that fake grin."

Turning around, a real smile shoving the fake one aside, Clara answered, "And have you ever treated a shattered face, doctor?"

"Not successfully, no," the slim fair-haired man before her admitted, "but if it happened to you, I would be too busy wildly grieving the loss of such perfect beauty to think about doctoring, anyway."

Clara almost laughed out loud. "Anders, you're almost chipper today. Do funerals agree with you?"

"No, I wouldn't say that," Anders said, scraping a palm against the stubble on his chin. From his other hand, he offered Clara a ham sandwich, wrapped neatly in a bit of cloth. "It's just your radiant personality that brings it out in me. Here, I see that the multitude hasn't given you a chance to eat. Tuck into it quick, while I hold them off with the power of my intimidating gaze."

In truth, it seemed that Anders had found her during a lull in the condolence-offering. Her stomach growled as she unwrapped the sandwich and took a huge bite. She mumbled a "Thank you" around her mouthful, knowing it was impolite. Anders was not much of a stickler for manners, thank goodness.

He smiled in response. "You're very welcome. In fact, if-"

"_Anders!_"

It was Bethany. The note of panic in her cry turned Clara's and Anders' heads toward the sound simultaneously. After a glance at each other, they bolted together in the direction of Bethany's voice.

At the edge of the gathering square, several chairs had been arranged for the comfort of the mourners. It was here, in the scant shade of a young, spindly tree, that Clara found Bethany kneeling in the grass next to the pitiably small form of their mother, Leandra Hawke.

Clara's heart jumped up into her throat. _Oh no. Not Mother. Not now. Please, _she prayed inwardly. As she drew closer, she was overwhelmingly relieved to see that Leandra's eyes were open, although her face was stark white.

Anders cleaved through the small crowd that had gathered around Leandra, and they considerately backed away from her to give him room. He dropped to the ground beside Bethany, who cradled her mother's head in her lap and looked up at him imploringly. Anders' hands went to work immediately, feeling her skin, checking her pulse, gently lifting her eyelid so he could peer at her pupil.

"So, Ms. Hawke," he said, conversationally. "Took a bit of a tumble, I see. What have I told you about climbing trees at your age?"

"She…she just fell right out of her chair," Bethany murmured. She glanced up at Anders apprehensively, as though expecting to be scolded. "I thought she looked tired, but-"

"Anders," Leandra croaked, raising one trembling hand to clasp his sleeve. "I believe I have told you about a thousand times to call me _Leandra_."

"I beg your pardon, _Leandra_," Anders answered easily. He had produced a stethoscope from somewhere inside his coat and placed the end of it gently against Leandra's chest, listening to her shaky breaths. "I'm simply trying to show respect for my elders. I still remember being beaten with a ruler by a cranky old nun every time I forgot. I really don't want her coming back to haunt me."

Anders removed the stethoscope and it disappeared into his coat again. He glanced up at Clara and smiled. "She's fine. A bit overtired, and a bit overheated. Let's get her a damp cloth for her head for the ride home." He turned to Bethany and continued, "When you get home, make her some tea and some broth. Give her two spoonfuls of the tonic I gave you. I'll bring her a fresh batch tomorrow."

Bethany nodded, her eyes intently on Anders as he said this, as though she might forget these instructions before she got her mother home.

Anders turned back to Leandra and patted her hand. "Rest, Leandra. You are to go to bed and rest. No chopping wood or digging wells tonight, okay? Otherwise I will have to send my cranky old nun to beat _you_ with a ruler."

"Anders, dear," Leandra chuckled weakly as she struggled to sit up with Bethany's help. "If only you would marry one of my daughters, you would make me a happy woman indeed."

Clara smiled wryly. Trust her mother to play matchmaker even while lying collapsed on the ground in the middle of a circle of onlookers. At the funeral of the fiancée of one of said daughters.

Anders caught Clara's eye and winked playfully. To her mother he answered, "If I were ever lucky enough to become your son-in-law, I would definitely have to stop calling you Leandra."

Clara happened to glance at Bethany just then, and saw that her younger sister's cheeks were blushing a deep shade of pink that was now creeping down her neck, as well. She had allowed her hair to fall into her face, obscuring it partially, and Clara saw that her eyes were studiously avoiding Anders, as though to look directly at him might call his attention to her embarrassment. _What's that all about?_

Bethany was saved from further scrutiny by the bellowing of an irritated voice, growing louder as its owner approached the small knot of people under the tree. "What is going on? What's happened to my mother? Why didn't anyone come get me-"

Clara straightened up from the ground. Better to face this with a stiff spine, if possible. She turned slowly to face the owner of the voice: her brother, Carver Hawke, eminent mayor of Kirkwood.

Carver scowled as he came to a halt in front of her. "What is this?" he demanded. "Is she all right?"

Clara considered carefully as she looked up at her brother. She supposed it was a bit too late to try to avoid a scene, but an argument now would only upset Leandra, and she would try to avoid that if possible. "She's fine, Carver, she-"

"What do you mean, fine? She's lying on the ground with a face the color of milk!" he accused. "You should never have brought her here. You are to blame for this!"

Clara clenched her jaw as Anders stepped smoothly in front of her. "Your mother is well, Carver," he assured the taller man, who was now glowering at them both. "I have seen to her, and she has simply tired herself out. Now, if you will help Bethany make her comfortable while Clara fetches the horses…"

"Carver, darling! _Carver_!"

Anders was interrupted by the arrival of a short, slightly plump blonde woman, who fluttered into view from behind Carver and grasped his arm tightly between both of her small hands. She flushed prettily as she gasped for breath, leaning against him as though she might collapse herself.

"Sweetheart, why did you leave me like that? You know I'm in no condition to go chasing after you!" One hand peeled itself from Carver's arm and pressed against the swell at her belly. Her eyes darted about, taking in the scene around her, and suddenly she gasped theatrically. "Mother Leandra! What on earth? Oh my goodness, I feel faint…"

"Anders, would you kindly see to my wife? I believe she is feeling ill." Anders suddenly had his arms full as Carver thrust the woman unceremoniously forward. She fell against him, several of her golden curls tickling him in the face. Clara saw him glance apologetically at her, and he withdrew toward the row of chairs with his flustered patient, murmuring, "Come now, Peaches, let's just get you settled over here and I'll take a look at you…"

Carver barely spared a glance for his wife as Anders led her away, preferring to keep Clara pinned in place with his hostility. "Well? Didn't the good doctor give you an order? Go get the horses," he snapped at her, "since you seem to be incapable of doing anything else. I know you are simply wild with grief over the loss of your rich boy-"

"Carver, that is both unnecessary and inappropriate," said a crisp new voice from behind Clara. "Your sibling squabbles have no place at a funeral."

Sheriff Aveline Vallen stepped from behind Clara and nodded to her amiably. She was somberly dressed for the occasion in black shirt, pants, and boots, but still wore her gunbelt around her hips. Her silver sheriff's star gleamed from its place on her chest. Clara was glad to see Aveline; she was one of the few people that Carver ever paid heed to, and Clara really wanted to get through this funeral without a loud argument.

"I have already sent Donnic to fetch your buggy and team,"Aveline said to Clara. "He'll be here in just a moment. Carver, I'm sure your mother would appreciate your assistance in helping her to the buggy, unless you mean to make Bethany carry her."

Carver, with a last waspish glance at Clara, stepped forward to where Leandra still huddled on the ground, and began to gather her in his arms. Clara could just hear the whispered reprimands from both Bethany and Leandra, chastising him for his behavior, but she knew that their words wouldn't bother Carver a bit.

Clara turned to Aveline, smiling gratefully. "You'd think he'd be dancing with joy today at the ruination of my dreams," she said ruefully.

"Clara, I'm very sorry for your loss," Aveline said. "He was a good man and didn't deserve to die so young. I will be investigating the circumstances fully, I assure you, but from my preliminary findings, it was truly an accident."

"I'm sure it was, Aveline. Fergus wasn't the best horseman I've ever seen, but even the best can be thrown like that when taken by surprise. Something must have frightened his horse. It could have been anything, really."

"I promise you, if there is anything suspicious to be found, I will find it," Aveline answered. Hoofbeats sounded from the street. Clara turned her head and saw her horses trotting toward them, with deputy Donnic seated in the driver's seat of her mother's small buggy. He pulled to a stop alongside the church square, and Carver, carrying Leandra, began to make his way toward it.

Clara turned back to Aveline. "I need to take Mother home and make sure she gets some rest, but there's also something I want to talk to you about. Will you be at the Hanged Man later?"

"Yes," answered Aveline firmly. "I'd love a couple of drinks after today."

"I'll see you there in a couple of hours," Clara promised, as she took her leave of Aveline and headed toward the buggy, where Leandra was now comfortably settled inside with Bethany next to her. Carver was gone already, thank goodness.

Bethany was speaking to Anders, who had extricated himself from Peaches and was looking over Leandra one last time. "Are you sure you'll be all right?" she questioned him.

"Yes, Bethany," Anders assured her. "The clinic will hold together for one day without you, never fear."

"All right," Bethany conceded. "I left the fresh bandages folded on the shelf nearest the fire, and the new herbs are in the basket by the door..."

"I am hoping not to need either tonight," he answered, as Clara climbed into the driver's seat and accepted the reins from Donnic with a nod of thanks. Anders smiled at her, then backed away, slapping the hindquarters of the nearest horse to get her started.

Clara breathed a sigh of relief as the small buggy finally left Kirkwood behind, rattling along on the worn path leading home to Rainesfere. The two mares, Cricket and Felsi, trotted along unhurriedly, and Clara clucked her tongue at them to encourage them to move faster. She felt emotionally drained, but restless at the same time. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to change into pants, unbind her hair, saddle Teagan, and just _ride_. Ride hard and fast, with the wind in her face, and think of nothing but the sound of Teagan's pounding hooves.

Clara flicked the reins, and her hand brushed against a lump in her skirt pocket. She pulled the object out to find the ham sandwich that Anders had given her. With a smile, she finished it off.


	2. Chapter 2

When Clara pulled Teagan to a halt outside the Hanged Man, the sun was just sinking into the black horizon, bathing everything in a rich golden glow. Long shadows stretched the length of the street, and stars were visible in the eastern purple sky. Oil lamps were shining in the windows of homes, and light spilled out from the doorway of the Hanged Man to illuminate the dirty wooden boards of the sidewalk.

The ride from Rainesfere had rejuvenated her, as she had known it would. She had taken the long way into town, wishing for her ride to last as long as possible. She had slowed Teagan back to a walk in plenty of time for him to cool down before they reached their destination, but she still felt her blood running fast from the thrilling headlong gallop. An errant breeze blew a lock of hair into her face, and she thought briefly of how disheveled she must look.

Clara slid from Teagan's saddle and wrapped his reins loosely around the hitching post outside the saloon. She took a moment to scratch his forehead affectionately, tugging gently on his braided forelock. Captured in one of the last moments of sunset light, his shiny chestnut coat almost seemed to be on fire.

Teagan made a _whuffing _sound, and nudged her with his muzzle, wanting more of the scratches. She obliged for a few moments, then stepped away from him with a last pat. "I won't be too long," she promised, as he snorted in apparent disappointment.

Entering the Hanged Man through the batwing doors, Clara's nose was assaulted with the scents of liquor fumes, sawdust, tobacco smoke, sweat, and a trace of vomit. It was also very warm inside, a fact that Clara attributed at least partially to how crowded the saloon was tonight. She couldn't remember ever seeing this many people here before.

Piano music filled the saloon from the far corner, where a lovely red-haired young woman played and sang bawdy songs for the entertainment of the patrons. Leliana, famous for her musical talents throughout Kirkwood and several surrounding towns, also sang at church services on Sundays, and had performed several hymns at Fergus' funeral earlier that day. Now she belted out "My Busty Pirate Lass" in the same beautiful tones, to the accompaniment of a circle of tipsy customers, all of whom had much less pleasing voices. She made a good living, Clara knew, if her frequent trips to Denerim to buy fancy shoes were any indication.

Clara spotted Aveline, Anders, and Varric Tethras, the owner of the Hanged Man, playing cards at their usual table in the middle of the room. She began to make her way toward them, and in doing so, passed a table where a short, red-haired, bearded man sat alone, his meaty fists clenched around a large mug in front of him. He looked up at Clara blearily as she approached, and his eyebrows raised as he recognized her.

"Hey, Hawke!" he called in his raspy voice. "You come to see me? You know I always got a place for you right here!" He gestured in the general direction of his crotch, and winked at Clara in what he clearly thought was a charming fashion.

"Thanks for the gracious offer, Oghren," Clara replied dryly. "But my answer is still no." She executed a quick side-step as she passed him, to avoid the hand snaking out toward her backside, and continued to her table, hearing gruff chuckling behind her.

Varric was dealing a hand while telling Anders and Aveline a story when Clara reached the table, something about werewolves living up in the hills to the north of town.

"I swear, the guy said he'd seen them himself!" he said jovially. "Big hairy brutes with long skinny legs. Make the most god-awful screeching sounds when they die." He looked up and his warm amber eyes found Clara. "Hey, Hawke! Didn't know if you'd make it tonight. Have a seat."

The owner of the Hanged Man was a short but powerful man, with a prominent nose and a quick mind. And, of course, a love of storytelling. Clara could remember the very first wild tale he'd ever told her. It had been about some kind of creature who lived underground, a giant fat female thing with huge tentacles and twelve breasts. Clara had a suspicion that this story resulted from one of Varric's nightmares after overindulging at his own bar, but to this day he insisted it was true.

"I hope those pitchers are full," Clara answered, smiling back at him. She glanced at Anders, and found him staring silently at her. Or, specifically, at her chest, where several locks of hair had tumbled over her shoulder and rested over one breast, the ends curling wildly.

After several seconds, she self-consciously pushed the hair back over her shoulder. "You'll have to pardon my appearance," she said. "My hairdresser has the night off."

Anders, snapped out of whatever reverie he had been in, smiled brightly at her. "You know, you could patent that hairstyle," he commented. "Rich ladies from the East would line up in droves to copy it, convinced it would make them as magnificent as you. What _is_ your secret?"

"I call it 'Hell-bent for Leather'. You like it?"

"Simply stunning," he answered. "All it needs are a few tumbleweeds and maybe a bird's nest for extra effect." He gestured toward the empty chair across from him, just as Varric said, "Sit down, already, Hawke. Make it look like you plan to stay a few minutes."

"I was going to get some refills for those first," Clara answered, reaching for the pitchers, both of which appeared to be empty.

"I can do that-" Anders began, but Clara raised a hand to stop him.

"I'm already up, and you're in the middle of a hand. I'll be right back. Is Isabela tending bar tonight?"

"Yep, she talked me into it," Varric answered. "She always gets bigger tips than I do. I wonder why?"

"I've no idea, I'm sure," Clara heard Aveline say as she headed up to the bar, pitchers in hand.

The bar was so crowded that Clara had to wait for a space to open up. When a man finally left, four full mugs clutched in his hands, Clara slipped into the vacated space quickly and set her pitchers down on the bar. Isabela, tonight's bartender and main attraction, was busy pouring drinks, but flashed a quick wink at Clara to acknowledge her. Clara nodded back, smiling slightly.

Isabela's dresses were always attention-getting, but when Clara saw the one she wore tonight, she immediately understood the reason for the crowd around the bar. Bright red silky material clung to each of Isabela's curves, which were considerable. Her breasts threatened to spill out of her bodice with every move she made, encouraged by the twenty or so pairs of eyes fixed upon them at any given moment. She wore rubies in her ears, and also in her black hair, which was piled artfully atop her head and pinned in place. Clara tried to imagine herself wearing that dress, then gave it up before she managed to depress herself completely. She may as well try to imagine old Barlin's scarecrow wearing it.

Waiting patiently for her turn, Clara glanced around idly and her eyes fell on the huge rifle mounted in the place of high honor above the bar, on a pair of carved wooden brackets. _BIANCA _had been lovingly carved in intricate script into the wood of the stock, which had been hand polished so often that it shone in the lamplight. Bianca was Varric's most treasured possession, his weapon of choice, and sometimes, his odd obsession. Varric spoke of Bianca, and sometimes _to_ Bianca, with the same affectionate, devoted tone Clara might use when talking to Teagan. Clara still didn't believe the story Varric told about when he and Bianca had killed forty bounty hunters alone in one night, any more than she believed the hunters had been hired by his own brother.

The man standing to her left jostled Clara, tearing her attention away from Bianca and nearly knocking her away from the bar. She turned in his direction to deliver a few harsh words, but she glanced past him and saw something that made her forget her reprimand.

There was a man sitting at the far end of the bar whom Clara was certain she had never seen before. She certainly didn't claim to know everyone in the Hanged Man tonight, far from it, but most of them looked at least familiar.

The man at the end of the bar sat on his barstool stiffly, as though he could feel the crosshairs of a rifle sight trained on his spine. Most of his face was obscured by the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, which he had neglected to remove like most of the other patrons had done, but Clara could still see a shock of white (_white?_) hair spilling down over his forehead. He did not smile or speak to anyone, nor did he even look around. He seemed to be staring down into his whiskey glass, which he held tightly between both hands before him on the bar. And his hands…something was wrong with them.

Clara did not realize she was staring at him until Isabela spoke from across the bar.

"I see you've noticed our stranger," she said, taking Clara's pitchers and starting to refill them from the keg. "He's the only one in the place tonight worth a second look. I _do_ love the silent, mysterious type."

"Are those scars on his hands?" Clara asked, her tone pitched low so only Isabela could hear. She continued to study him, intrigued. The man wore long sleeves, and a red scarf around his neck, despite the stifling heat. Against the black of his shirt, it looked like a splash of blood.

"Yes, and his face, too. A mysterious man with a tragic story. I like him already," Isabela answered, placing the two refilled pitchers back down in front of Clara. "He's not very friendly, though. Not that I mind that. Watch."

Isabela sashayed down to the end of the bar, ignoring the calls of the other men waiting for drinks, and stopped in front of the man in black. "Can I get you anything else, sweetheart?" she inquired invitingly, leaning toward him so far that her breasts rested on the bar's surface. Male heads all along the bar swiveled in her direction, but the man in black didn't glance up at her.

Clara saw his mouth move, forming one word: "Nothing."

Isabela straightened up, turned to Clara, and shrugged. Clara shrugged back, took her pitchers and, with one last glance at the man in black, headed back to her table.

She arrived to find two new additions to the group. The first was Donnic, Aveline's deputy, who had taken the seat beside her. He was assuring Aveline that all was well over at the jail, he had locked up securely, and, seeing that there was no one currently occupying any of the jail cells, he had thought it would be all right to leave a little early to come over for a drink. Aveline nodded reluctantly. She normally didn't approve of anything she considered shirking of duties, but Clara knew that even Aveline had to admit that it was unfair to expect Donnic to remain to supervise an empty jail.

The other person to join the table during Clara's absence was none other than Carver. He had taken the vacant seat across from Anders, leaving the only remaining place next to Donnic, which was as far away from Carver as possible. Clara gratefully took it, and after Donnic had considerately filled her mug for her, took several long swallows. The beer was warm, and a bit stale tasting, but she only set it down after draining half the mug.

Carver shot her a look as he filled his own mug. "Sister," he said, by way of greeting. "I am assuming you didn't leave Mother all by herself?"

"No, of course not," Clara answered warily. "Bethany is there, and Elthina, as always."

"And how is Peaches feeling?" Anders interjected. "I told her she needs to relax more. Stress of any kind is not good for the baby. She seemed quite…emotional today."

Carver waved a hand dismissively. "She gets emotional whenever the wind blows."

"Shouldn't you be at home with her?" Clara asked. "What if she needs you for something?"

"That is what I'm paying the servants for," he replied. "Besides, it gets tiresome listening to her prattle on about baby clothes and baby names. She apparently finds silence to be a grave sin."

"If you're looking for silence, you're in the wrong place," Anders commented.

Varric shuffled the cards with a flourish. "Shall I deal you in, then, Junior? I wouldn't mind winning some of your money tonight. I seem to be lacking in servants around here."

Carver scowled at the nickname, then shook his head. "I believe I will head up to the bar for a while. The view there is definitely better. If you win some money, you ought to replace these chairs, Varric. I think I have a splinter in my ass." He took his mug and disappeared in the direction of the bar.

No one spoke for a few moments, during which Varric began to deal the cards. "I swear I don't know what that boy has to be cranky about," he finally said. "He's the mayor of the town, has a nice house, a pretty wife who worships him, and a baby on the way. What could be wrong in his life?"

"Carver is still upset that I had the nerve to exist before him," Clara sighed. "I used to think he might forgive me for that someday…but then Father left the ranch to me. That gave him enough to hold against me for the rest of his life."

"I wonder why he's so prickly over that?" Varric asked. "We all know he doesn't care for horses...or work." Anders snorted.

"I'm disappointed in him," Aveline said. "I thought that having his own position of authority would help his self-worth, but so far, I am wrong."

"He's always been a bit of a bastard," Anders said lightly. "Being mayor isn't going to cure that. I think he may just be one of those lost causes people talk about while shaking their heads and clucking their tongues."

The next hour or so passed pleasantly enough for Clara, if she could count losing every hand she played as pleasant. Finally, she gave up and dropped out of the game. She was a horrible poker player and she knew it. Anders was fairly good, but Varric was the best of them all, except perhaps Isabela. Shortly after Clara dropped out, the Hanged Man began to clear out a little, partially due to the fact that Leliana had finished playing for the night. Clara suddenly wondered if the scarred man was still there, but when she turned to look, she found his barstool empty, and there was no sign of him anywhere.

Carver was still up there, and Clara glanced at him just in time to see him grasp Isabela's hand between both of his, bend over it, and kiss it reverently. Isabela watched, a small smile on her lips, then reclaimed her hand, winked at him flirtatiously, and returned to her customers.

"Clara, was there something else you wanted to discuss?" Aveline asked suddenly. "You mentioned something at the funeral…"

Clara nodded, glad Aveline had reminded her. "I've decided to leave tomorrow to deliver those horses to Chief Sundermount."

"Then I'll go with you," Aveline said immediately.

"I was hoping you would say that," Clara smiled.

"I'll go too," Donnic volunteered.

Anders held up a hand. "Chief? Chief Sundermount? If I didn't know better, Clara, I'd think that was an Indian you're referring to."

"You can't go, Donnic," Aveline replied. "We might be several days, and you'll have to be in charge while I'm gone." Donnic nodded as though he hadn't really expected her to acquiesce.

"Chief Sundermount was my father's best friend," Clara elaborated to Anders. "They hadn't seen each other in years when my father died, but in his will, he left five of his best horses to the Chief. It's up to me to take them to him. There's no one else to do it."

Anders' good humor had disappeared. "You're planning to go _looking_ for Indians?"

"Yes, my father told me that his winter camp is on the Brecilian Plains. Another reason I've waited too long to go. Since it's spring now, they'll be leaving soon, to follow the buffalo herds west."

"Please tell me you're not serious about this, Clara," Anders implored.

"Why not?" she asked curiously. "I won't be in any danger…"

"No danger?" Anders asked incredulously. "Would you like to ask that poor family from outside Antiva if Indians are any danger? Oh, never mind. You can't. They're all dead!"

"Anders, that was different," Clara tried to explain. "This tribe isn't hostile like that…"

"If they don't kill you outright, they take you captive," Anders interrupted. "You'd rather be dead, Clara. I guarantee it." His eyes were panicked as they stared into hers. Clara had the distinct feeling that he wasn't seeing her at all, but was focused instead on some horrific scene playing out in his mind. _What happened to him? _ she wondered.

"Aveline will be with her," Donnic pointed out, as though it was obvious that Aveline was perfectly capable of defending Clara against an entire tribe of hostile Indians.

Varric cleared his throat. "Hawke, I mean no disrespect to your father, you know that," he began carefully. "But I have to ask. Why do this at all? You could take those same horses over to Denerim or Antiva and sell them for a pretty penny. It would help the financial situation some, hmm?"

"I can't do that, Varric," Clara said softly. She glanced at Anders. He seemed to have given up arguing and now stared mournfully at her. "They were friends, and the Chief doesn't even know my father has died. I need to tell him that, if nothing else. Besides, Chief Sundermount saved my father's life once. I owe him."

Varric, sensing a story behind these words, said eagerly, "How did he save your father's life?"

Clara smiled. She remembered the many times her father had told her the tale, and her heart ached a little. "When my father was young, he was surprised by an Indian tribe and taken captive. They were planning to kill him at first, because he had killed one of their fighters during his capture. But the son of the chief made a request of his father: that they keep the captive alive and he himself would guarantee he would never escape. He and my father slowly became friends, which really wasn't supposed to happen, and eventually, the chief's son set my father free. He took a great personal risk in doing so, and my father believes he was punished severely when the escape was discovered. Years later, when Sundermount's father died and he became chief, he forbade his people to take any white captives ever again, nor to attack without provocation."

"You're certain this captive ban is still in effect?" Varric asked. "Since you'll be riding right into their midst and all?"

"My father wouldn't send me into danger," Clara said resolutely. "He knew I'd be the one to deliver the horses. Aveline, I'll meet you at first light in front of the jail."

A short while later, Clara left the Hanged Man. She had taken leave of her friends a bit early, considering the early start she planned to make tomorrow. She was outside the saloon in the dark, unwrapping Teagan's reins from the hitching post, when she heard a soft sound from behind her. It was Anders.

"Clara, I know I can't talk you out of this," he said softly. The rising moon had turned his hair silver with its ghostly light, and his voice seemed loud in the quiet street. "Just…be careful. And come back to us safe."

He stepped forward, and before Clara realized what he was doing, he kissed her. It was gentle, soft, and brief. Clara didn't even have time to decide whether to kiss him back before he pulled away and was gone into the darkness, leaving just the ghost of his warmth on her lips.

That night, Clara dreamed of Anders' kiss again, except this time, she grasped his hands in hers as he started to pull away. When she looked down at them, she saw, in the bright moonlight, that they were covered with scars.


	3. Chapter 3

**To all those who have read and/or reviewed: thank you so much! I am thrilled that others are enjoying this. To those anxious to see Fenris again, he will definitely appear in the next chapter. Clara just needs to get her little errand out of the way first...**

* * *

><p>"<em>John! John, where are you?" Mother's voice, panicked.<em>

_A pair of strong arms sweep him up from behind. A masculine voice: "I've got him, Petra!"_

_He is shoved into another pair of arms. Softer, smaller, but strong with terror._

"_Take him inside! Do not come out! Arm yourself, Petra! If they get inside you must protect him!"_

_No reply but sobs of fright. He cannot see, he is pressed against her chest where she holds him tight. He is very afraid now. He has never heard his parents speak this way before. He can hear other screams, gunshots, hoofbeats._

"_You come with us, Karl! Don't you leave me!"_

"_I cannot! Now go inside! Now!"_

_He is jostled as Mother turns, runs. He can see now: men with guns, women and children running. The hoofbeats are closer. Now there are wild screams approaching, louder every second. They sound like nightmares, like demons._

_Mother almost drops him as she wrenches open the door. Slams it shut behind them, dashes past the gun cabinet in her terror. He opens his mouth to remind her of the guns when he sees the face in the window. Death's face._

Anders awoke with a gasp and found himself trembling. He wondered if he had screamed, and his first thought was _Bethany_.

Then he remembered. Bethany was at home with her mother. The pallet out in the clinic where she sometimes slept would be empty this morning. So, he thought, it really didn't matter if he had screamed, after all.

He lay still as the trembling slowly subsided. It was still dark in the small room, but the faint light at the window indicated that dawn was near. He rubbed his face with his hands, trying to wake up completely and shake off the lingering terror of the dream.

He heard hoofbeats. Many of them. He shot upright in bed, one hand clumsily fumbling for the knife he kept on his bedside table, suddenly certain that when he looked at the window again he would see that demon face…

There was nothing there. Just a view of the ever-lightening sky and part of a stunted tree.

The hoofbeats continued, and Anders realized that they were real. Not dream hoofbeats, not harbingers of doom. There were horses outside on the street, that was all.

_Damn, _he thought. _Coffee. I need coffee. Or whiskey. Let's try coffee first._

Pulling on a pair of pants, not bothering with a shirt since he was alone here this morning, Anders left the bedroom. Out in the front room which served as his clinic and kitchen, he headed toward the woodstove to heat water. Halfway across the room, he glanced out the front window and paused.

His clinic was situated across the street and several doors down from the jail, and he could see six horses in the street out in front of it. These must be the ones who passed by a short time ago.

Only one of them had a rider. And even in the predawn light, Clara's big red stallion was unmistakable.

A few moments later, another horse joined the six, this one a pale grey, also with a rider. Almost immediately, the entire bunch began moving away down the street. Heading west, toward the Brecilian Plains. From which the two riders may or may not return.

Anders stared at the now-empty street for several minutes before tearing himself away. He had begun to think whiskey might be the better choice after all.

* * *

><p>Clara shifted the reins to her left hand and adjusted her hat. Beneath her, Teagan stamped a hoof and snorted impatiently, annoyed at the standstill, as though he didn't need a rest even after traveling for nearly three days. Clara glanced over at Aveline, on her grey gelding, Drake, several yards away.<p>

"I think we've found them," Clara commented, gesturing toward the wisps of smoke issuing from the dark smudge on the horizon that she had decided must be the Indian camp.

"I certainly hope it's them," replied Aveline. She tilted her head and squinted toward the smudge. "How do you think we should approach? I don't want any misunderstandings."

"It's fairly certain they've already seen us," Clara answered. She took a few swallows of water from her canteen and then capped it again. "We'll just keep going nice and slow and see if someone comes out to meet us."

"All right," Aveline agreed. "Nice and slow." Knotted around her saddle horn, and Clara's as well, were the ends of the lead ropes guiding the horses meant for Sundermount. Aveline reached out to check the knot, making sure it remained secure. The action had become a habit over the last three days. Clara checked hers as well, although she had no real concerns about losing the horses this close to their destination.

Then she urged Teagan forward and they started down the gentle incline, bearing their gifts across the last bit of plain.

* * *

><p>No one came out to meet them. Clara began to feel apprehensive as they approached the camp and saw no outward response from its inhabitants. <em>A trap, maybe?<em>

Her uneasiness intensified when they drew near enough to see a line of people facing them at the edge of the camp. After a questioning glance from Aveline, Clara nodded shortly and kept going. She was able to see enough to be certain, even if Aveline yet couldn't, that the people waiting for them were unarmed. This made her feel slightly better. At least they weren't going to be attacked outright.

_What happened to "My father wouldn't send me into danger"? _she chided herself. She had been all unflappable certainty the other night, when Anders had tried to convince her of how insane she was to do this. Now that she was here, though, she couldn't help the feelings of anxiety surfacing now. Careful to keep all traces of doubt from her face, she rode forward determinedly.

When they reached what she considered a polite distance, Clara stopped the horses and dismounted. Aveline followed her lead, glancing around constantly, trying to keep watch on all sides at once. Dropping Teagan's reins on the ground in front of him to signal him to stand still, Clara swallowed and walked toward the people waiting on the edge of the camp, with Aveline at her back.

She studied the faces as she approached them, looking for signs of hostility. She saw none, but then she reminded herself that she had met very few Indians in her life, and perhaps they were just very good at hiding their intentions. Something inside her disagreed, though. These people were somber, some were even stern, but they were not hostile. Clara was surprised to see a small smile on the face of the tall man in the center.

It was this man who stepped forward to greet Clara. He had glossy black hair, as they all did, but his was streaked with grey and decorated with braids and beads much more elaborately than the rest. He wore brown leather pants and a matching shirt which was embroidered with what looked like porcupine quills and small animal bones. His bronze face was dignified, lined with age, but still strong. She noticed tattoos on his face, as well as on the faces of all the people she could see, men and women both. His dark eyes sparkled as he regarded Clara.

He said, "Welcome to my camp, Clara-Hawke. I have been expecting you."

Clara's eyes widened in astonishment, but she tried to keep the shock out of her voice when she replied, "Uh, thank you. I…you are…"

"I am Sundermount, the leader of the Dalish people," he confirmed. "I see you are surprised. We have much to discuss, I think."

"You know my name," she blurted out.

"Yes. I know you are Clara-Hawke because you look so much like your father. Your eyes are exactly like his, grey and sharp like the hawk's own. Do you bring news of your father?"

"Yes, I do." Clara's mind was whirling, trying to make sense of how this man knew who she was and why she was here. "I have traveled here to inform you of his death. He passed away several months ago."

Sundermount suddenly raised his arms to the sky, closed his eyes, and began to chant in a mournful voice. Clara couldn't understand the words, but the intention was clear enough. It was a prayer. Several of the others standing to either side of Sundermount lent their voices to the chant. Clara bit down on the questions she longed to ask, and waited patiently, knowing that they were honoring her father.

When Sundermount finished his prayer, he looked again at Clara, and then at Aveline. "You travel in good company, Clara-Hawke. The Red Warrior is a loyal and able protector. You have chosen well." He nodded solemnly to Aveline, who nodded back. _The Red Warrior. _If Clara knew Aveline at all, she would take this as a great compliment.

"Chief Sundermount, I'm sure you know that my father's horses were his prized possessions. When he died, he wished for you to have these." Clara gestured toward the five horses still tethered to Teagan and Drake. They stood patiently, some cropping grass, some twitching their tails to keep the flies away.

Sundermount smiled, displaying even white teeth. "Malcolm-Hawke had a kind and generous spirit. I am honored by this gift. And I thank you also, Clara-Hawke. These are fine horses, indeed." He turned to a younger man beside him and gestured toward the horses. "Zathrian," he said, and spoke several more words to the man that Clara couldn't understand. "My sons will see to their care. You must also allow us to care for your horses while you are here."

"Thank you," Clara answered. She watched hesitantly as a young boy approached Teagan, grasped his reins, and began to lead him into the camp. Teagan could sometimes be stubborn with strangers, but he followed the boy agreeably. Relieved, Clara turned back to Sundermount.

"I know you have many questions. Please, come to my lodge now. We can talk," he invited warmly.

Clara nodded in acquiescence, and she and Aveline followed Sundermount as he began to lead them through the camp. They passed many tent-like structures made of animal hides and painted with designs of red and yellow and white. Women tended fires and sewed clothing, while children ran about shouting and dogs barked. Faces studied Clara curiously as she passed, and some of the women smiled at her. The men seemed a bit more stern, but she saw some of them nod slightly as she passed. Everyone she saw had facial tattoos, except the children, but none of the designs seemed to be the same from one person to the next. None of the people she saw seemed surprised to see her. It seemed that she was known here because her father had been known here, even though years had passed since his last visit.

Aveline seemed to be much more of a novelty to Sundermount's people than she herself was. The women and children seemed rather fascinated with Aveline's hair. She wore it in a thick plait that hung down her back, and the fiery color of it was the cause of much murmuring. A few children followed her closely, and when one dared to touch the braid, Aveline stopped, smiling, and bent down so the children could all study it. Each child stroked the braid, then ran off, giggling. Clara doubted that any of them had ever seen a redhead before.

Most of the Dalish were performing some sort of work, whether cooking, sewing, or making weapons, but soon they walked past a group of young men who seemed to be playing a game. There was a tall post sticking out of the ground about fifteen yards away. It appeared to be nearly the width of Clara's hand, and it was painted in bands of several different colors. The young men were throwing knives at the post, and it appeared that whoever managed to stick their knife closest to the top of the post without missing was the winner. Clara paused to watch.

The tournament appeared to have narrowed down to two contestants. A boy with green tattoos in a swirling pattern around his eyes was taking aim now. He threw, and his knife stuck in the green band of color, which was third from the top. His opponent, a boy who appeared slightly older, then stepped up and sunk his knife into the white band, which was second from the top, right under the red tip of the post. The boys then noticed Clara's interest in their game.

One of them, the one with the green tattoos, smiled at Clara and offered her a knife, hilt-first. She considered for a moment, then shrugged, took the knife, and stepped over to the throwing-line. She could sense that Aveline, Sundermount, and his entourage had all stopped also, to watch her.

Clara held the knife for a few moments, judging its weight and balance. Then her arm flicked out, and the knife flew from her hand and embedded itself into the red-painted tip of the post.

Belatedly, Clara thought, _Perhaps that wasn't the best idea. What if I've offended them?_

Apprehensively, Clara turned back toward the boys, and was relieved to see that they were smiling. The green tattooed boy chattered something in his own language, and then held out another knife to Clara encouragingly.

She took it, aimed, threw, and the knife stuck in the red paint next to the first one. The boys whooped excitedly, and insisted that she throw a third time. After a third knife jutted from the red band, the boys danced around her, and the green tattooed boy removed a bracelet made of colorful beads from his arm and slipped it around Clara's wrist. "Champion!" he crowed. "Champion!"

_These boys could certainly teach Carver a thing or two about losing gracefully, _she thought. _He'd sulk for a week whenever I dared to beat him at knife-throwing. Or anything._

As Clara rejoined the group heading toward the chief's lodge, Aveline murmured affectionately, "Show-off."

"I'm just glad it wasn't a shooting competition," Clara replied, under her breath. "I'd have shot myself in the foot, I'm sure." They continued through the camp.

In front of a tent that was roughly twice the size of the others, Sundermount stopped so that Clara and Aveline could precede him inside. The interior was spacious and dim, the only light coming from the smoke hole in the ceiling. The fire was situated in the middle of the space, and around it were arranged many furs and animal skins, creating a comfortable seating area encircling the fire. Clara and Aveline were invited to sit on one side of the fire, while Sundermount took a place across from them. He was joined by two women on his left, and a young man on his right. After a few moments, the man whom Sundermount had called Zathrian came in and joined them, also seated to his right.

The time had come for introductions. Sundermount nodded toward the women on his left and said, "Clara-Hawke, may I present my wife, Velanna, and our shaman, Marethari."

Velanna was a shy, friendly looking woman with large dark eyes and soft black hair, worn free down her back. She smiled warmly at them, and Clara liked her immediately. Marethari was considerably older. Wrinkles lined her face, her tattoos were faded with age, and her hair was entirely grey. She looked into Clara's eyes unblinkingly, and Clara suddenly had the strange feeling that this woman knew more things about her than she had any cause to know. The feeling was not intrusive, but comforting, somehow.

"These are my sons," Sundermount continued, gesturing to his right. "My eldest, Zathrian, and second eldest, Fenarel."

Clara studied the two young men as they stared frankly back at her. They both resembled Sundermount greatly, but there was something wilder and more distrustful in their faces that wasn't present in Sundermount's. Perhaps it was the fact that they never smiled.

Velanna had moved away from her husband's side and now stirred something in a clay pot that was set among the ashes of the fire.

After a short pause, Clara said, "Your English is very good, Chief Sundermount. I have to admit that I was surprised to hear it."

"I began learning it when Malcolm-Hawke was still among us," the Chief replied. "After he left, I continued to study it on my own. I now teach those of my people who wish to learn. Although some of them," he added with a glance to his right at Zathrian, "do not approve of what I do. Some feel I have strayed too far from the old ways."

As though he knew his father spoke of him, Zathrian frowned. He was handsome, Clara supposed, but there was a fierceness in him that was just a bit frightening. He snapped a few words at his father, who waved his hand dismissively.

"Zathrian is one of those who disapprove," he explained. "He will be chief one day when I am gone, and he may do things his own way when that time comes. Until then, he will have to endure my choices."

Velanna began handing out carved bone bowls into which she had ladled some of the contents of the pot by the fire. As Clara accepted hers, she saw that it was filled with a savory stew, full of chunks of deer meat, early spring onions, and several fragrant herbs. When she took a sip of it, she found it delicious.

There were a few minutes of silence while they ate. Velanna watched Clara and Aveline anxiously, and smiled and nodded her head when she saw that they were enjoying the food. Clara smiled and nodded back. She had gathered that Velanna was not one of those who knew English.

When they had finished, and the bowls had been collected, Clara asked tentatively, "When we arrived, you said that you had been expecting us. How can that be?"

Sundermount nodded as though he had been expecting this question. "Our shaman, Marethari, dreamed that a hawk would visit our camp this day, bearing news," he explained. "She did not know the hawk's name, but knew it was a female."

Clara turned her gaze back to Marethari. The old woman was again staring at her, but Clara still didn't feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"The hawk totem is a powerful one," Sundermount informed her. "It is swift, graceful, intelligent, and agile. It is a fierce killer and very loyal. Those who have been chosen by the hawk share many of its traits. It was so with Malcolm-Hawke and so it is with you. I can see that it is so."

Suddenly Marethari spoke, and Clara was startled to hear the words in English. "Clara-Hawke, have you met a wolf during your travels?" Her voice was raspy, but it resonated with strange power, like an echo.

"A wolf?" Clara asked, uncertainly. The closest thing she had ever met to a wolf was her huge dog, Hubert, who had been left at home to guard the house. Her father had said once that he thought Hubert had some wolf blood in him, but none of them really knew his pedigree. "No, I haven't."

"The wolf is a loner," Marethari said. "He is distrustful and angry, and yet he seeks something even he knows not. You will have to choose whether to befriend or betray. Either choice will reward you, and both will be difficult, but you must make a choice."

"Make a choice when I meet the wolf," Clara confirmed. _What on earth does that mean?_

"Befriend or betray," Marethari reiterated, and then fell silent.

"Clara-Hawke, Marethari also saw another purpose for your visit in her dream," Sundermount said. "The spirits have also sent you here to perform a service for the Dalish."

"What kind of service?" Clara inquired absently, her mind still on the wolf.

"You must take my daughter with you when you leave here," was his reply.

Clara was startled. "What?"

Sundermount waited a moment before answering. His voice took on a sorrowful tone when he finally said, "I have six daughters. Merrill is my youngest. She needs to leave this place for her own safety and that of all my people."

At the mention of Merrill's name, Zathrian's face darkened. His eyes narrowed beneath his heavy brows and his lip curled slightly as if in a snarl. Sundermount glanced at him before continuing.

"Merrill consorts with evil spirits to gain dangerous knowledge. Her ways offend the Great Spirit and the protective spirits of the earth. They have therefore abandoned us. Our people have been cursed and will remain so until she is gone."

Marethari made an odd gesture in the air at these words, and Zathrian muttered under his breath. Velanna simply looked sorrowful, but resigned.

"You've been…cursed?" Clara asked doubtfully.

Marethari answered her. "The last three babies to be born to our women were stillborn. We have lost seven of our hunters to accidents since the beginning of winter. Our trackers can find little game, and when our hunters shoot, the arrows pass directly through their quarry. We are cursed."

"What has she done to offend the Great Spirit?" Clara inquired.

Marethari made the gesture in the air again, and Sundermount said, "We cannot speak of it, Clara-Hawke. We dare not anger the Great Spirit further. Zathrian has been in favor of putting Merrill to death to appease the Great Spirit, and many of my people agree with him. If you refuse to take her with you, I am afraid such will be her fate."

When Clara stole another glance at Zathrian, she could see that he was indeed eager to see Merrill die, or even to kill her himself. Rage and disgust burned hot in his eyes. She saw the same in the face of his brother, Fenarel. _What kind of awful witch is this, and what am I to do with her?_

"Marethari dreamed then of the hawk's visit, and suggested that Merrill was to be sent away. Zathrian and the others have agreed to allow her to go. Will you do this?"

Clara spoke carefully. "I do wish to help you, of course, but what is Merrill to do once we get back to Kirkwood?"

"Merrill has many talents that may be useful to your people, Clara-Hawke. She is a good hunter. She can track game. She knows much of herbs and healing. Most importantly, she is a Seer, a shaman. She was Marethari's…apprentice, you would say. Her skills have not been fully developed, but she has much knowledge already."

"Will she not bring this…curse…with her?" Clara didn't really believe in curses, but wondered why they thought she would be willing to take one back to Kirkwood with her.

"The Great Spirit of the Dalish does not concern himself with your people, Clara-Hawke. If only she is gone from here, the earth spirits will forgive us."

Clara shared a questioning look with Aveline, seeking her opinion. Aveline shrugged slightly in response. _It's up to you._

Clara turned back to Sundermount. "I will take her."

Sundermount nodded solemnly. His face did not change, but Clara could detect a note of relief in his voice as he said, "Merrill is ready to go. She will be waiting. Come."

* * *

><p>A few moments later, Clara blinked in the bright sunlight outside the lodge. The others filed out behind her, and Zathrian and Fenarel immediately disappeared. Clara gathered that they had no wish to bid their youngest sister farewell.<p>

Before the rest of them could begin moving toward the edge of camp, though, Velanna stepped forward and turned to face Clara. Smiling tremulously, she reached out a timid hand and stroked Clara's cheek. Then she called out in a clear voice that rang across the camp.

Nothing happened for a few moments, but then Clara saw movement from behind Velanna and turned her attention toward it. A horse was walking toward them, right through the midst of the camp and its people. Women and children removed themselves from its path almost reverently.

Clara had never seen such a horse as this. She was pure white from ears to hooves, and her coat glistened in the sunlight like fresh snow. Her head, perched atop a proudly arching neck, was small and delicate. The graceful way she moved, placing each dainty feathered hoof just so with each step, reminded Clara of the flowing movements of antelope, and the way they seemed to glide above the ground without touching it.

Clara was in love with her immediately.

The mare walked right up to Velanna, unafraid. Velanna stroked her muzzle lovingly, whispered some words to her, and then smiled at Clara again.

"My wife Velanna wishes to make you a gift, Clara-Hawke," Sundermount said. "This mare is what my people call a spirit guide. She is yours now, in gratitude for the service you are providing for the Dalish."

Clara's first thought was to refuse. How could she accept such a valuable gift? This horse was easily worth more than all five of the ones she had given to Sundermount. She opened her mouth to speak, and then looked more closely at Sundermount and Velanna. They gazed back at her steadily, and she could see the encouragement and hopefulness in their expressions. To refuse this gift would insult them grievously.

Clara raised a hand toward the mare, and stroked the velvety muzzle admiringly. "I…thank you," she said earnestly to Velanna. "You honor me. Thank you."

Velanna smiled once again, then turned, and with her husband by her side, began to walk toward the edge of camp, followed by Marethari. Aveline and Clara trailed after, both of them looking back every few steps at the white mare, who had immediately begun following them.

In her wonder at her new horse, Clara had momentarily forgotten about the girl they were going to be taking with them. Back at the tent, Sundermount's and Marethari's words had painted a picture of an evil witch, frightening to behold, with an air of malevolence surrounding her. The reality, as she soon saw, was quite different.

Standing alone at the edge of the grassy plain, facing her people, stood a tiny figure. She was barely thicker than the walking stick she carried, Clara thought. Her dark hair was shorter than that of the rest of the women Clara had seen, and had been braided in several places and secured with colorful beads and leather string. She had tattoos on her face, as all of the Dalish adults did, but her most striking feature was her enormous pair of eyes. They were green, and Clara was startled to see them. No other Indian she had ever heard of had green eyes.

"My name is Merrill," the girl said hesitantly as Clara and Aveline drew near. "You are Clara. Clara-Hawke. Or is it just Hawke? I am sorry. I don't wish to offend…"

"Just Clara is fine. This is Aveline," Clara said kindly. Aveline nodded politely to the girl.

"It pleases me to meet you both," Merrill said earnestly. "We should leave quickly. Come." She turned her back on the camp and mounted the stout paint pony who stood waiting behind her. Teagan and Aveline's Drake stood nearby. Merrill gestured at them.

"Please, let us go. There will be no words of farewell from my people. It is seen as bad luck."

Clara grasped Teagan's reins and mounted, as Aveline did the same beside her. Clara considered a lead rope for the white mare, but Merrill seemed to know what she was thinking.

"You will not need a rope for her. A spirit horse always knows its owner," she explained. Indeed, the white mare had followed Clara and now waited beside Teagan, who snorted and sidestepped away from her. Patting his neck comfortingly, Clara turned him back toward the grassy plain and the three of them left the Dalish camp behind, with the white mare following after them.


	4. Chapter 4

When Clara stepped into Anders' clinic, neither of the two occupants noticed her at first.

At the far end of the room, near the woodstove, she saw Anders sitting on a chair facing Bethany. He was leaning over her hand, which was resting on his knee, as though about to kiss it. Bethany leaned forward also, her lips almost touching his hair, and her expression was so unguarded that Clara was sure she had intruded upon something intimate. She paused, surprise widening her eyes. _Anders and Bethany?_

Then Clara saw the blood-spotted rag that Anders was using to dab at the cut on the back of Bethany's hand. "Bethany?" she inquired as she moved toward the pair. "Are you hurt?"

Both heads swiveled toward Clara, startled. Anders' face lit up in a bright smile. "You're back!" he exclaimed. She could see the relief in his eyes as he quickly scanned her for evidence of injury. Seeing none, he beamed up at her, still holding Bethany's hand.

Bethany also smiled warmly. "Sister," she greeted. "How was your trip?"

"Interesting. I'll have to tell you all about it, but," Clara frowned at Bethany's bleeding hand, "what happened to you?"

"Oh, just a scratch," Bethany waved her free hand dismissively. "I was chopping some vegetables for soup and, well, you know how clumsy I am…"

Clara stared at her sister skeptically. She knew nothing of the sort. Bethany was always methodical and graceful, never clumsy. Why ever was she behaving so strangely?

Bethany's breath hissed through her teeth as Anders poured some liquid from a small dark bottle over the cut. "Sorry," he murmured. "The antiseptic does sting a bit. Here, hold this in place while I get the bandages." He positioned Bethany's free hand on top of the clean cloth he had placed over the injury.

As he passed Clara on his way across to the cabinet where the bandages were stored, he paused beside her and awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. "I'm glad to see you back safe," he whispered. Before he moved on, Clara saw his eyes rest on her mouth for just a moment, and she wondered if he was thinking of the brief kiss they had shared on the night before she had left.

She turned to Bethany, who wore a determined, innocent expression. _What? Nothing out of the ordinary here._

Clara raised her eyebrows at her sister. _You and him?_

Bethany shrugged and glanced pointedly away. _I admit nothing._

Clara thought she understood now. _Anders and Bethany, except only one of them knows it._

She caught Bethany's eye again, and then jerked her head questioningly toward Anders, who was still rummaging in the cabinet, muttering to himself. _Want me to say something to him?_

Bethany firmly shook her head and glared at Clara. A moment later, Anders returned to his seat and took Bethany's hand again. He began to wrap it in a clean white bandage.

Bethany said in a bright voice, "Have you been home yet, Clara? Mother will want to see you right away."

"I haven't, no," Clara answered. "I have a few things to take care of in town before I go home." The foremost of which was finding a new home for a strange Indian girl whose own people had cast her out for consorting with evil. Right now, Merrill was over at the jail with Aveline. Clara had left her there while she made some inquiries into available rooms in town.

_If I can't find a place for her, I suppose I could always take her home with me, _she thought tiredly. _We have Carver's old room, not to mention the bunkhouse. _She briefly wondered what her mother would think.

Bethany was experimentally flexing her bandaged hand. She smiled at Anders. "Thank you, Anders," she murmured.

"I think it's my fault, actually," he remarked as he got up to put away the first aid supplies. Bethany and Clara both glanced quickly up at him. "If I hadn't mentioned a craving for stew, you wouldn't have been fixing it for me, and you wouldn't have gotten cut."

"Well, why wouldn't I make it for you?" Bethany teased gently back. "You can't cook."

Anders put on a feigned hurt expression. "I will have you know, I can make excellent biscuits." His tidying complete, he turned back to Clara. "So, tell us about your trip, and don't forget to scoff at me for being so worried about your safety."

"I will, but I think I need a drink first. You two want to come over to the Hanged Man with me?"

Anders agreed, but Bethany said gently, "Not me, thanks. I still have stew to finish."

"Look, Beth, you don't have to do that just for me-" Anders began, but Bethany hushed him.

"I don't mind a bit, and it's already begun. And after that, I wanted to step over and visit with Goldanna for a while. She's still getting over that illness and needs some help with all the laundry. If she doesn't get it done, then she doesn't get paid, and she's barely making it by as it is." Bethany, knife in hand once more, began shuffling purposefully around the stove again. "I picked up some candy for her children yesterday. They'll be so excited." She smiled as though thinking of their happy little faces.

Anders smiled fondly at her. "You're such a darling, Bethany."

Bethany quickly turned back to the stove, hiding her face, but Clara was sure she could see a blush tinting her earlobes pink.

"After you, my lady," Anders said, and Clara preceded him outside into the early afternoon sunlight.

* * *

><p>At this hour of the day, the Hanged Man was nearly empty. Isabela stood behind the bar, washing glasses, and Varric lounged at one of the tables nearby, his boots propped on the tabletop, reading aloud to her from a battered book. Only two other people were present. One was Oghren, seated at his usual place, his face buried in his arms on the table and emitting loud uneven snores. Clara wondered if the man ever went home. It was common knowledge in Kirkwood that his wife had left him, but as far as Clara knew, she hadn't taken the entire house with her.<p>

And at the end of the bar, exactly where Clara had first seen him, was the man with the scarred hands. He had removed his hat and had placed it on the bar in front of him, and Clara could see that his hair was indeed white. _He's so young though, how can that be? _ He wore the same black clothing and red neckerchief that he had been wearing before, and his demeanor was much the same. He stared straight ahead and did not look around, although Clara had the distinct feeling that he had marked her and Anders' entrance.

Clara felt a strange satisfaction at seeing him again, and wasn't sure why she was so pleased. He was obviously not friendly, and he might even be dangerous. Clara studied him surreptitiously as she made her way up to the bar with Anders. In the daylight, the scars on his hands appeared skeletal.

"Well, the Hawke has returned!" exclaimed Varric when he looked up from his book and saw her. "Hawke, listen to this." He began to read. "'_Cailan grasped Anora roughly by the hair, his eyes wild with fury and desire, and forced her to her knees in front of him. Her breasts heaved enticingly inside the tight bodice of her gown, and her lips were flushed dark red, but whether with anger or lust, Cailan couldn't tell. "I'll show you what it means to defy me," he snarled, and his other hand fumbled at his belt, anxious to free his-'"_

"For God's sake, Varric, what on earth are you reading?" Clara asked, scandalized.

"It's erotica, Hawke," Varric answered easily. "This one is rather good, don't you think, Isabela?"

"Oh, absolutely," Isabela answered, with a wink at Clara. "I'm a bit jealous of Anora right now…"

"Number two thousand and five on the list of things I didn't need to know about Isabela," Anders commented. Isabela blew him a kiss.

"To be continued," Varric said. He placed a marker in the book and set it aside.

Isabela placed earthen mugs full of beer in front of Anders and Clara. "Drink up, my friends."

Clara seated herself on a barstool, and shifted uncomfortably at the sensation of something poking her in the side. Putting her hand to the spot, she felt the corners of several envelopes that were sticking out of her pocket. _The mail, yes_. She had shoved the letters into her pocket right before going into Anders' clinic.

She pulled the envelopes out and sifted through them quickly. "First Bank of Denerim" was emblazoned across the envelopes of all but one of the letters. Her stomach turned at the sight of them. Delinquency notices, she was sure. And there were so many of them. She set them aside, not willing to face facts right at the moment. Later, when she was alone, she would open them. Then she could cry where no one would see her.

The one remaining envelope was also addressed to her, but there was no return address. It was nice quality paper, too, thick and creamy. Curious, she ripped it open, slid the single sheet out, and began to read.

Varric's topic of conversation had moved on from erotica to Oghren. He and Anders were discussing how soon he would fall off his chair in his sleep, as he had begun to lean precariously to the left. Anders, obviously disregarding the patient's confidentiality, had begun to list the various ailments and maladies that Oghren had been to see him for, and if Clara had been listening, the recitation would have been enough to make sure she made a wide detour around his table in the future.

"Varric," she interrupted, swiveling around on her barstool to face him. "You've traveled around some. Have you ever heard of a man named Danario Chavez?"

"Danario Chavez?" Varric repeated thoughtfully. "I'm not sure. Let me think a minute…"

"How about you, Isabela?" Clara turned back to where Isabela stood behind the bar, stacking the clean glasses on their shelf. She caught a glimpse of the scarred man as she turned. He had frozen in place with his whiskey glass lifted halfway to his mouth. A moment later, he set it down again stiffly. Clara paid him no attention, too intent on questioning her friends about the mysterious letter-writer.

"Never heard of him," Isabela quickly answered, not looking up from her task.

"I think I do know who he is," Varric said. "Cattle rancher, right? Owns tons of land, way out past Antiva. Probably the richest man in the territory, if I'm thinking of the right guy. Why do you ask?"

"Because," Clara answered, gesturing with the letter she held, "he wants to buy Rainesfere. Listen."

She began to read. "_To Miss Clara Hawke, Rainesfere Ranch, Kirkwood: I have never had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, yet your reputation precedes you as an intelligent and determined businesswoman, and breeder of fine horses known even in Antiva. I send my most sincere salutations along with a genuine hope of a future business relationship. It has come to my attention that you have found yourself in an unfortunate financial situation, and your ranch, Rainesfere, is in danger of repossession. I am greatly interested in purchasing your ranch, and I am prepared to make a most generous proposition: full current value of your land in cash, plus all legal fees with regards to transfer of ownership. If you wish to sell your horses and livestock as well, I am sure we can agree upon a mutually satisfactory arrangement. I find it necessary to insist upon a swift reply to this letter, as our business must be concluded before the Bank of Denerim takes possession of Rainesfere. I am sure you will agree that my offer is quite generous, and with the proceeds from the sale of your ranch you will find yourself with plenty of means to purchase another property elsewhere. Please consider, and forward your response as quickly as you are able. Cordially, Danario Chavez, Minrathous Ranch, Antiva."_

A few moments of silence followed the conclusion of the letter. Then Anders said, "So he wants to buy the ranch from you, and then he'll have to pay off the bank if he wants to keep it. He'd be buying it twice. Must be nice to have that kind of money."

"Hawke, are you actually considering this?" Varric asked, confused. "I thought the whole point was to keep the ranch somehow. Have you changed your mind?"

"No, of course I want to keep it. I would give anything to keep it!" Clara declared. "It's just…maybe this Chavez would be willing to make a different deal. Perhaps he would lend me the money and I could pay him back with interest. He's a cattle rancher, right? He'll need horses. Maybe-"

"You are a damned fool."

The deep, growling, yet melodious voice from behind her made gooseflesh break out on Clara's back. In the shocked silence that echoed throughout the bar following this pronouncement, Clara swiveled slowly around until she faced the scarred man. She found herself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes, narrowed into a glare by the brooding black brows above them. The scars on his chin appeared as brightly white as those on his hands. The gooseflesh spread onto her arms, and she resisted the urge to rub them vigorously.

"Excuse me?" she asked quietly.

"I believe you heard what I said."

"Oh, silly me!" Isabela suddenly interjected, in an _oh-my-goodness-where-are-my-manners_ voice. "Clara, may I present Fenris Jones? Mr. Jones, Clara Hawke."

Neither of them glanced at Isabela or acknowledged that she had spoken. So Isabela knew his name. Apparently he had deigned to speak during her absence from town. Clara, staring into his eyes, began to feel distinctly like a mouse being hunted by a…well, a hawk. She didn't like the feeling.

"Well, then, Mr. Jones," Clara said, pleased to hear that her voice sounded perfectly calm. "Perhaps you would like to enlighten me? You heard me read the letter. Do you happen to know this Danario Chavez?"

"It doesn't matter whether I know him. I'm referring to your own obtuseness, _Miss Hawke_. I thought this place might be different, but it's the same everywhere. Someone with money and power shows up, and everyone goes out of their way to hand him more of both, and the entire world bends to his will. _Intelligent businesswoman, _indeed. You're already prepared to lick his boots if you think it will get you what you want." He was practically snarling at her, his lip curled in a sneer.

Clara felt her face flush. Her heart pounded in her chest. Behind her, she could feel Anders bristling with outrage. He had gotten to his feet, but she reached back and touched his arm to keep him still. She said coldly, "Do not presume to think that you can judge me when you know nothing of me or my problems. I'll thank you to keep your uninformed opinions to yourself, _Mr. Jones_."

"Perhaps I shall," he shot back at her. "God knows, my 'uninformed opinions' have never made a damn bit of difference before. Why should now be any different?" He grabbed his hat from where it lay on the bar, and with a last withering glance at her, stalked out of the Hanged Man.

Clara stared for several moments at the doorway where Jones had disappeared. His angry, growling voice still seemed to echo around the quiet saloon. She heard Anders slump back into his seat, and she turned back to the bar. "What the hell was that?" she asked the room in general. "Can you believe-"

She caught sight of Isabela then, standing behind the bar with a knowing smile on her face.

"What are you smiling at?" she snapped, still annoyed at the way the stranger had affected her. Her heart was still racing.

"Just enjoying the fireworks," Isabela explained lightly.

Clara sighed in exasperation. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"That little display just then. I was hoping I'd be the one to get on his…nerves. But I know when I've been beaten. Bravo, Hawke."

"What? Are you crazy?" Clara asked in disbelief. "Didn't you hear what he said? He –"

"Yes," Isabela interrupted, a bit dreamily. "You two just met, and already you inflame his passion. This is going to be _so_ interesting."

"Varric, please tell Isabela she's lost her mind," Clara implored.

"Well, Hawke, we've got to look at the facts here," said Varric easily, propping his feet up on the table again. "The guy's been in here every single day for the last week, and hasn't said five words the whole time. It almost took an act of Congress to get his name out of him. Then you show up, and the guy's suddenly moved to speeches? There's a reason for that."

"Yes, it's called irrational craziness."

"It's a fine line, Hawke." Varric shrugged.

Clara realized that Anders had remained silent throughout this exchange. She turned to him, hoping for a voice of reason, and saw that he was avoiding her gaze. _He believes them. Dear God, has everyone lost their minds?_

"You two have been reading way too much 'Cailan and Anora'," Clara muttered sourly.

"Speaking of which, read some more, Varric. Hawke made you stop right at the good part," Isabela requested.

"Ah, yes." Varric picked up the book again. "I believe Cailan was about to make her s-"

"Aveline!" Clara cried out gratefully.

The tall red-haired sheriff had just entered the saloon, accompanied by her diminutive charge. Anders, Varric, and Isabela stared in surprise to see the Indian girl, complete with leather clothing, beads in her hair, and tattoos on her face, standing in the middle of the bar, looking around with wonder.

"Is this where everyone comes to get drunk?" she inquired of Aveline. "Are we going to get drunk now?"

"Everyone, this is Merrill. She's part of the story I was getting around to telling." Clara introduced the girl to her friends, and told an abbreviated version of her visit with the Dalish and how Merrill had accompanied them home. She left out the part about Merrill supposedly being the cause of an evil curse among her people, assuming that wouldn't help Merrill make any friends here.

"So anyway," Clara concluded. "I was hoping to find her a place to stay in town, if I could. Do any of you-"

"She is just so adorable," Isabela positively crooned. "Why don't you stay here with us, Merrill? We have an extra room upstairs. It's small, but…so are you."

"You live here?" Merrill asked her, wide-eyed. "In the drunk-house?"

Isabela laughed. "It's called a saloon, Merrill. Yes, I live here. So does Varric, but he doesn't have to pay for his room. He owns the place."

Merrill was suddenly concerned. "How will I pay for my room? I don't have any money."

"Why, you can work in the bar. What do you think, Varric? Can we keep her?"

Varric looked doubtful, but he shrugged. "Sure, we can try it out. The more the merrier, right?"

"Thank you both!" Merrill exclaimed. "This is so exciting. I can't wait to see the drunks!"

"Why wait?" Varric asked. "There's one right there." He pointed at Oghren.

As Merrill moved away to inspect the snoring Oghren, Anders pulled Clara aside. He frowned at her. "You're bringing Indians home now? What are you thinking?"

"I couldn't exactly refuse, Anders," Clara said defensively. "What are you worried about? She's harmless."

Anders looked doubtful. He opened his mouth to argue further, but Merrill had come back, wrinkling her nose. "He's not very exciting, is he?" she asked, disappointed. "And he smells terrible!"

"Don't worry, dear," said Isabela. "He's the only one in town who smells like that. Unless you count Barlin's pigs."

* * *

><p>Clara left the Hanged Man a short time later, relieved to finally be heading home. She walked back to the jail, where she retrieved Teagan and the white mare, and rode back through the town toward the road to Rainesfere. She glanced around constantly, her eyes lingering momentarily on each black-clothed figure she saw. None of them were Fenris Jones, and Clara kept telling herself firmly that she would be perfectly happy never to see him again.<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter finally earns the M rating. Be warned. Or enjoy. :)**

As the house slowly came into view over the horizon, a feeling of peace settled over Clara like a warm blanket on a chilly night. _Home, finally_. During her journey to and from the Brecilian Plains, it had, of course, been necessary to make camp at night. Clara normally enjoyed sleeping out under the open sky, with a warm fire nearby, listening to the chirping of crickets and the sound of the wind rustling the tall grass. This time, however, she had not been able to relax enough to enjoy the experience. It was the first overnight trip she had made since her father died, and she worried about leaving her mother, Elthina, and Bethany alone.

As she approached the house along the two worn wheel-tracks in the grass, Clara spotted a strange horse standing in the corral nearest the barn. In a few moments, she was close enough to recognize the horse as Grace, Father Vael's elderly mare.

_Is it time for his visit already? _Clara supposed it was. Since Leandra was usually too ill or weak to attend church services in town, Father Vael made regular visits to the ranch instead. Clara was grateful for his kindness in doing so. She knew her mother greatly enjoyed seeing him and very much looked forward to his visits.

She headed straight for the barn, where she removed Teagan's tack and put him in a stall. She piled her bedroll and saddlebags in a heap, to unpack and put away later. She turned to the white mare then, who was simply standing in the wide doorway, watching her. Clara wondered briefly if the mare would come inside at all, having spent her life with no roof overhead, and clucked her tongue encouragingly at her. "Come on in, sweetheart," she crooned, opening the door to the stall next to Teagan's. _I really need to decide on a name for her, _she thought. It hadn't occurred to her to ask the Dalish if she had a name, and she couldn't remember the words that Velanna had called out to summon the mare to her side. Perhaps Merrill would know.

To her surprise, the mare stepped forward and walked right into the stall. Astounded, Clara let the stall door click shut behind her. A pair of dark, intelligent eyes gazed at her over the edge of the door. _Definitely no ordinary horse._

Clara filled the horses' water buckets and measured out some grain for each of them. They both needed a thorough grooming, but Clara thought it could wait until morning. She left the barn and headed up to the neat white house, stopping briefly to pat Grace.

As she rounded the corner of the house, she saw a large brown shadow detach itself from the other shadows on the porch and come barreling toward her. She stopped, smiling. "Hubert!"

The huge dog raced toward her, his teeth bared in a rather ferocious-looking grin. Instead of knocking her flat in the dirt, however, he stopped just short of her, his big body wriggling with pleasure as he licked her hands frantically in welcome.

She hugged him around the neck, and she barely had to bend over to do so. "Hubert, have you been a good boy? Been guarding the place like I asked?"

Hubert whined in response, his big tongue still seeking her hands. She scratched his ears affectionately. "Good boy, Hubert. I knew I could count on you."

Hubert trailed after her as she climbed the steps to the front porch, and then resumed his spot between the two rocking chairs to continue his job of protecting the house. Clara went inside.

The familiar smells of home overwhelmed her like a warm wave as she stepped through the front door and shut it gently behind her. Burning wood from the fireplace, furniture oil, and the floral scent of the early spring bouquet next to the door were overpowered by the delicious aromas of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon. _Elthina's been busy today, _Clara thought affectionately. _Apple pies, if I'm not mistaken._

Just as she thought this, Elthina herself appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. Her pale blue eyes twinkled with pleasure as she exclaimed, "Clara! Welcome home, dear!" She caught Clara up in a firm hug, which Clara returned enthusiastically.

Although older than Leandra, Elthina was as spry and energetic as a woman half her age. She had lived with the Hawkes since the twins were born, and originally her duties were to care for all three Hawke children. Over the years, her job had evolved to housekeeping and cooking as well, and now that the children were grown, she took care of Leandra. Clara couldn't remember a time when Elthina hadn't been with them. Clara smiled at her warmly and asked, "Is Mother…?"

"In the parlor, with Father Vael. I've just brought them some tea. You should join them. Unless you wish to change first? You're rather dusty…" Elthina looked askance at Clara's trail-worn clothing.

"I feel as dirty as these clothes," Clara admitted. "I can't wait to take a long bath tonight. I want to see Mother right away, though."

"Go on in, then, dear," Elthina sighed. "Just…try not to sit on anything." With that, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

The parlor was a cozy, feminine room that had always been exclusively Leandra's. Even before the Hawkes had moved to Rainesfere and built this house, the houses they had lived in had always had a parlor, and they had all looked very similar to this. Plush armchairs, velvet covered sofa, rich draperies and thick, soft rugs filled the room. Tiny, delicate tables stood here and there, bearing fragile knick-knacks on their shiny tops. It even smelled like her mother in here: like herbal soap and lavender. Clara remembered that she and her siblings had barely ever been allowed into the parlor as children. It was certainly not the place for rambunctious youngsters. Even now, Clara always moved with caution while in the parlor, feeling too clumsy to be trusted among all her mother's delicate things.

Leandra was now seated in one of the soft armchairs before the fireplace, with her feet up on an ottoman and a quilt tucked around her. Clara recognized the quilt as one that she and Bethany had made as a Christmas gift for Leandra about ten years ago. Well, to be honest, Bethany had made most of it. Clara hated to sew, and only helped enough to be able to truthfully sign the card.

Father Sebastian Vael, Kirkwood's young priest, was seated in a chair near Leandra, holding a cup of tea in his hands. When he saw Clara, he smiled in welcome, set his cup down on the tea tray, and stood to welcome her. His clear blue eyes reflected the amber light from the fireplace.

"Ah, Clara," he greeted her as he clasped her hands warmly. _Claah-rra. _It made her smile. "Leandra and I were just speaking of you. I am glad to see you are home safe."

"Thank you, Father, I am certainly glad to be home," Clara answered. She turned to her mother and bent to kiss her on the cheek. "Dare I ask what you've been saying about me?"

Leandra patted her cheek lovingly. "Have some tea, sweetheart. Elthina just brought in some refreshments."

Clara's gaze took in the spread laid out on the low table in front of her mother's chair_. Refreshments, eh?_ To her it looked as if Elthina had expected the entire congregation of Kirkwood's church to stop by instead of just the priest. Two loaves of bread with butter and jam, three kinds of cookies, chocolate cake, and an entire apple pie. In addition, she saw the usual wicker basket next to Father Vael's chair, and knew it was filled with more of the same. Elthina seemed convinced that the poor Father would starve to death if she didn't send him home with a basket of baked goods each week.

"I was saying," Leandra continued, "that since poor Fergus died, I worry that I may not live long enough to see my daughters properly married. What with Bethany spending all her time at the doctor's and Clara here preferring her horses to people-" here she smiled at Clara, "-I often wonder how any decent young man is supposed to pursue a courtship."

"Fergus managed it," Clara protested. "I can't exactly sit around and wait for a husband to show up, Mother. The ranch is a lot of work without Father."

"I know it is, dear, and I know your father would be very proud of you. I just worry for your future. Isn't there anyone in town whom you fancy?"

Unbidden, the images of two pairs of eyes formed in Clara's mind: one warm golden brown, one brilliant furious green. She shoved aside the visions firmly. "No, Mother," she said softly. "And even if there were, if he objects to my work on the ranch, I don't want him anyway."

"I was asking your mother how you have been," Father Vael said seriously. "I haven't had a chance to speak with you since Fergus' funeral."

"Well, no one has, I've been gone," Clara said lightly. She settled herself on the only piece of furniture in the room that she didn't fear ruining with dirt, a wooden footstool. Her stomach growling, she reached for a cookie. "But, Father, I am fine. Truly."

"I am glad to hear that. Losing loved ones is never easy, especially when it is so unexpected..." A sudden expression of grief twisted his features, and he raised a hand to cover his eyes. Clara leaned toward him, concerned.

"Father, are you all right?" _This can't be about Fergus, surely._

Father Vael lowered his hand from his face and said softly, "I am sorry. I received some bad news yesterday and I have not quite come to terms with it yet. I was hoping to put it out of my mind for a while, not to ruin our visit. Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive," Clara insisted.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Leandra asked gently.

He sighed. "Yes, I believe I would. I have prayed all night for peace and God has not yet seen fit to grant it. Don't I always tell others that sharing your burdens makes them easier to bear? Perhaps He means for me to share this one." He took a deep breath and his eyes took on a faraway look. "I received a letter from my father's lawyer yesterday. It seems that my family has been killed."

Clara's mouth fell open, and Leandra gasped. _I didn't realize he had a family, _Clara thought_. He never talks about them._

He continued. "My father, mother and both brothers, all dead. The killers broke into the house in the night, while they were sleeping. It appears to have been a robbery. My mother's jewels were taken, as well as some of the more valuable household items. The murderers…used knives. My brother… was about to get married…" His voice choked off.

Clara slid off the stool and knelt before him on the rug, taking his hand again. His anguished blue eyes had filled with tears, and Clara suddenly realized how young he really was. Surely no more than a few years older than herself. She tried to imagine losing Mother, Bethany, and Carver all at once and her heart clenched in sympathy for him. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"How awful," Leandra exclaimed, shocked. "Have they found who was responsible?"

"Not so far. My father's lawyer says there aren't many leads, and to be prepared for the possibility that they may never be found." He paused for a few moments, appearing to collect his thoughts. "He also wanted to let me know that Starkhaven is now mine."

"Starkhaven?" Clara asked in amazement. "Starkhaven Weapons?"

"Yes," confirmed Father Vael. "My father's business and his great passion. You know of it, I see."

"My father's favorite hunting rifle is a Starkhaven."

"A hunting rifle," agreed Father Vael. "If only my father had been content to keep making only hunting weapons, I would have been more amenable to staying in Philadelphia and learning the business, like my brothers. But he decided long ago to build an empire based on mankind's wish to kill each other. I've never agreed with it, and it was one of the major reasons I left home and came West."

"Your family didn't approve of you becoming a priest?" Clara asked.

"Not at all. According to my father, only poor, unimportant people were supposed to give their lives to God." His lips twisted into a bitter grin. "You can tell there were many differences between us. I was definitely the black sheep."

"Will you return East to run the company?" Clara asked.

"I do not know," he answered softly. "I feel that I belong here, yet Starkhaven was my father's entire life's work. It will not be easy to decide. I must pray for guidance. Will you pray with me now? For my family?"

"Of course," answered Leandra, and Clara nodded her head. "For your family."

The three of them bowed their heads as he led them in a prayer for the souls of the murdered.

* * *

><p>Hours later, after Father Vael had left, returning to Kirkwood with his basket of treats strapped precariously to the saddle behind him, and Leandra had been settled comfortably in the big bed she had shared with Malcolm, Clara dragged the big copper bathtub into the kitchen and pushed it into position near the stove.<p>

She regarded it for a few moments, trying to decide how much of an effort she wanted to expend. _Fill it all the way, _she told herself finally. _I want to soak from head to toe._

Heading outside to fill her water buckets from the pump, she took a moment to admire the sunset. The vibrant orange sky was quickly fading to purple, and several bright stars were visible. Clara loved this time of day. The very air changed, becoming cooler in temperature, but also the scent of approaching night was different, like the tiny white flowers that bloomed on the prairie under the moon. She took a deep breath of it, and then returned to the kitchen with her buckets.

As the water heated, Clara gathered the other essentials: thick towel, clean nightdress, perfumed soaps, and a small bottle of scented bath oil that had been a gift from her mother. Piling these on a chair next to the tub, she took the buckets outside for more water. Several trips would be necessary to fill the big tub.

By the time the tub was nearly full of steaming water, the kitchen had fallen dark. By the light of an oil lamp, Clara stripped off her dusty clothes and tossed them in a pile near the back door. Then, with a deep sigh of contentment, she slipped into the tub.

The hot water enveloped her up to her shoulders. Clara washed her hair first, dipping her head beneath the surface to rinse out all the lather and dirt. Wet, her chocolate brown hair appeared almost black in the lamplight. She then used the soaps, lathering every inch of skin until she was sure that every speck of dust had been washed away, leaving a light, pleasant fragrance on her skin. Her washing complete, Clara lounged in the water, eyes closed, and let her body relax.

Luxuriating in a tub of scented warmth made Clara feel distinctly feminine, a sensation that was almost foreign to her. Compared to Bethany, delicate and graceful, or to Isabela, exotic and sensual, Clara generally considered her own body far inferior to either of theirs. Hard physical work had burned off any excess flesh that may have granted her more feminine curves, and her wind-roughened skin and calloused hands were nothing like her sister's creamy softness. But now, feeling the heat soften her skin and melt into her bones, and the delicate scents of the soaps surrounding her, she could almost feel desirable.

Fergus had certainly thought so. _Beautiful, _he had called her. _My lovely Clara. My darling, _as he had slid his hands over her body and kissed her deeply. Wanting to please him, she had allowed him to touch her, kiss her, undress her, and press her down on his bed beneath him, but she had not particularly desired it. Even after he had cried out his pleasure, shuddering, and grasped her to him, whispering endearments, Clara had felt nothing more than soreness and a vague yearning for something, something he couldn't give her.

Now, remembering the feeling of his hands caressing her, she felt it again, the craving for touch on her skin, on her lips. Although it had brought her no pleasure at the time, the memory of him thrusting into her, moaning loudly, caused her nipples to ache. Perhaps if they had had a chance to do it again, she thought, maybe it would have been different. Maybe she could have…

_Stop it. Fergus is dead. It's…shameful…to think of him like this. _Although, deep down, Clara wasn't sure it was Fergus she was really thinking of at all. Golden brown, brilliant green. Those colors in her mind again.

The water was cool, she realized. Clara rose from the tub and reached for her towel, suddenly feeling exhausted. She slid the thin nightdress over her clean skin, and headed upstairs to her bedroom. The tub could wait until morning to be emptied, she decided. All she wanted now was the sweet oblivion of sleep.

* * *

><p>Carver pressed himself against the wall, straining to hear the first sign of footsteps on the other side of the closed door. Across the room, curtains fluttered at the open window. He could hear voices and laughter coming from downstairs in the saloon. Not wishing to be seen, he had quietly climbed up to the small balcony and eased himself through the window into Isabela's room.<p>

It was dark except for one oil lamp that she had left burning on the dressing table near the window. The flame was low, casting a dim golden glow throughout the room. He could see clothes hanging from hooks at intervals along the walls, and some of the drawers of her bureau were partially open. He noticed several silky garments peeking out over the edges of the drawers. _Nightclothes, _he thought. _Undergarments. Stockings. _He wondered whether, if he were to cross the room, grab a handful, and press it to his face, he would be able to smell her scent on them. In fact, he could already smell her perfume. It lingered in the air throughout the room, and the scent of it made his cock twitch. _God, Bela, hurry up._

His eyes moved to the large four-poster bed that dominated the room. It was unmade, and the silky sheets and velvety blankets lay in disarray. He imagined her naked in that bed, twisting under him, moaning his name. It was something he pictured often, even when at home, lying in bed beside his sleeping wife.

Footsteps. _Finally. _Carver's body tensed as he waited. Maybe it wasn't her. Maybe it was that new Indian girl, Merrill, who had taken the room next to Bela's. But then the door opened and Isabela stepped in.

As soon as she was in sight, Carver seized her. Roughly pulling her inside, he slammed the door and then shoved her back against it, pinning her there with his body. He was instantly hard at the feeling of her pressed against him as he grasped her hair and kissed her forcefully. He slipped his tongue inside her lush mouth and the taste of her made him moan.

Shoving him back, she slapped him across the face, hard. He felt the sting, and then the heat that flooded into his cheek. He fell to his knees before her and buried his face in her dress. His arms encircled her waist and he nuzzled his face into her soft belly, breathing in her scent.

"God, Bela," he murmured. "Want you so much."

Isabela grasped a handful of his hair and yanked his face away from her. He gasped at the pain of it, but before he could react, her lips were on his and he could think of nothing else. Her kiss was gentle, her tongue teasing as it caressed his gently before darting away. Then she released him.

"Why are you here, Carver?" she asked teasingly, her voice low and throaty.

"Need you," he moaned.

"Are you so insatiable? I believe we were together just last week."

"Eternity."

He reached for her again, but she stepped away from him, over to her dressing table, where she began to remove her jewelry. He remained on his knees, watching the way her hips moved beneath the satiny material of her dress.

"Poor Carver," she crooned. "What about your wife? Does she not please you?" She began removing the pins from her hair. It fell down her neck in gleaming black waves.

"She isn't you." Carver could barely remember that he had a wife when he was in Isabela's room. Her scent was so overpowering, her presence so irresistible, that he could barely remember his own name.

She came back to him. Her hands buried themselves in his hair and her fingernails scraped cruelly against his scalp. He groaned again, and pulled her against him, pressing his face between her thighs.

"You want that, don't you?" she purred. "You want to taste my pussy, want to slide your tongue deep inside me. Don't you?"

"God, yes," he growled, a wave of lust hardening his cock even further. His hands scrabbled at her dress, trying to shove it upward, but she grabbed his wrists and pulled him to his feet.

"Take your clothes off. Let me see how much your cock wants me."

He obeyed instantly, standing naked before her in a matter of moments. His cock stood proudly, fully hard, its tip glistening with moisture. He sucked in his breath as she caressed the tip with one of her fingers, smearing the thick droplets into the sensitive skin. His hips thrust toward her involuntarily, seeking more.

"Bela," he moaned. "Please…"

She pinched one of his nipples, hard. The pain shot straight to his cock, making it ache to be touched. He yanked her against him, rubbing his shaft against her as he slid his hands around to her back, fumbling clumsily for the row of buttons that, once undone, would free her of the maddening dress that covered her from his sight. He yearned to tear the dress from her, had no patience for these tiny buttons that kept slipping from his fingers. It became more difficult when Isabela bent and scraped her teeth along his other nipple, and then laved it with her tongue.

"Fuck," he muttered in frustration, as he lost his grip on the buttons again. He tried to concentrate, but he could barely think with Isabela's teeth on him. The urge to tear the dress off came over him again, and he barely quelled it.

Finally, the dress began to slide off her shoulders, and Carver yanked it down to her waist, freeing her breasts from the concealing fabric. In an instant, his face was between them, nuzzling her hot skin as his hands cupped and kneaded her generous flesh. Isabela arched her back and thrust them toward him, encouraging him to touch, and taste.

"That's right," she whispered. "Suck my tits, Carver. Suck them hard."

He did, greedily closing his lips over one of her dark nipples, pulling as much of it as he could into his mouth, flicking it with his tongue. When she moaned, he released it and captured the other one, biting it gently and scraping his teeth over her rigid nipple. She sighed.

"Good," Isabela crooned. "That's good. You must like my tits. I've seen you staring at them when I'm tending bar. Do you like my tits, Carver?"

He opened his mouth to agree wholeheartedly that God yes, he loved her tits, but before he could speak, Isabela had grasped him by the hair again and was dragging him backward, to the edge of the bed, where she kicked aside her dress and now stood before him naked except for her stockings and the garter belt that held them up.

The hand buried in his hair forced him to his knees before her, and she leaned back onto the bed. Spreading her thighs wide, she pressed his face toward the dark juncture between them and whispered, "Now lick me."

He needed no encouragement. With a throaty groan, he leaned forward and eagerly parted her folds with his questing tongue. Her exotic scent enveloped him and went straight to his bloodstream like a drug. When he felt how wet she was, how wet and hot and sweet, he couldn't help curling his arms around her thighs to hold her tight to his mouth.

He started slowly, using the flat of his tongue to lick deliberately up her slit, like a cat lapping up cream. When she began to squirm, he increased the pace, delving his tongue deeper until he found her throbbing pearl. When he brushed against it, she moaned, and he continued to tease it gently until her hips began to buck.

He then moved lower, leaving her clit so he could thrust his tongue inside her hot entrance, pressing as deep as he could. She cried out, and she began moving rhythmically against him, grasping handfuls of his hair, while he held her fast.

He was so attuned to her reactions that it was almost as if he was feeling her pleasure. He knew the exact moment to shift his arm out from under her so he could massage her pearl with his thumb in time to the thrusts of his tongue, knew when to increase the speed and the pressure, knew precisely what motions would bring her the most pleasure as she writhed against him and twisted her hands in his hair and cried, "Oh Carver, oh yes, _yes_." After all, she had been very thorough in his education.

When her body had begun to relax and she had caught her breath, Carver released her from his grip. She may or may not have glimpsed the small smile of satisfaction that he couldn't help, but in a moment she was kissing him again, this time more sensuously and lazily. The sensation of her hands on him again, her breasts pressed against him, reminded him forcibly that he was still incredibly aroused, and his cock throbbed almost unbearably as she wrapped one warm, soft hand around it.

"Would you like to fuck me now, Carver?" she murmured throatily.

"Yes," he whispered helplessly. "Yes. Now. Please."

"Then do it," she answered. "Fuck me hard."

She pulled him onto the bed with her, crawling on her hands and knees, and Carver followed. The blood pounding in his ears, possessed by lust, he grasped her by the hips and sheathed his quivering cock into her from behind.

He lost his head at the sensation of being buried to the hilt in her hot wetness, and pure animal instinct took over as he thrust into her again and again. He was vaguely aware of shouting something, some words, but he had no idea what they were. His body demanded release, and he pounded into her faster and faster, chasing that maddening pressure that was building in his balls, pushing it ever closer to the edge. His fingers dug into her hips mindlessly, beyond caring if he bruised her, his mind and body filled only with primal need.

His release was brutal and exquisite. His body stiffened, he shoved into her one last time as deeply as he could, and then the ecstasy slammed through him in waves so intense he thought he would scream. He tried to, but the only sounds that his throat would make were ragged cries. _Just as well, _he thought wildly, giddily. _No one's supposed to know I'm here. _

He became aware that Isabela was gasping for breath, moaning loudly, and he could feel her spasming around his cock, clenching him so firmly that his entire body twitched from the pleasure of it. He thrust into her a few more times, gently now, soaking up every last bit of sensation before he had to part from her.

Eventually, though, he slid out of her, and they collapsed together on the bed, panting and sweaty. Limbs entwined, she gathered him to her, and he pulled her close, resting his head on her breasts. They lay quiet for some time. She stroked his hair idly, and he began to feel himself drifting off.

_Can't go to sleep, _he told himself fuzzily. Soon he would have to get dressed, climb back out the window, and walk home alone in the dark. Back home to Peaches, whose eyes would widen when she smelled the perfume on him, but who, for once, would say nothing.

The sweat on their bodies slowly dried in the warm breeze from the open window. Carver knew that soon she would stir, and that would be his cue to go. Isabela enjoyed a bit of snuggling after sex, but she preferred to sleep alone.

"Bela, I wish-"

"No," she interrupted. Her voice was gentle, but he could hear the steel behind it. "It does no good to wish. You must accept things as they are because that's how it is. Wishing changes nothing."

He tightened his arms around her and pulled her down for a goodbye kiss, but in his heart, he still wished.


	6. Chapter 6

_I'm sure everyone (including me) never thought this story would be updated. First Skyrim ate my life, then Mass Effect 3 ate more of it, then overtime at work sucked up what was left. But after all that, it's still in there, bouncing around inside my tired skull. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

><p>At Hubert's warning bark, Clara leaned the pitchfork up against the wall and peered out through the open doorway to see who was coming. The bright sunlight blinded her at first, as her eyes had adjusted to the dim interior of the barn, but after a moment she could see Drake's grey form approaching along the road. The red hair of his rider glinted in the sunlight.<p>

Clara stepped outside and headed toward the water trough to splash some of the sweat and dust from her face. For the past three days, she had been trying to catch up on the work that had fallen behind while she had made the trip to the Dalish camp. She often wished, usually at times like these, that Mr. Feddic and his son were still working at Rainesfere, but she had had to let them go when she could no longer afford their wages. The last she had heard, they had found jobs on a cattle ranch far to the north, and she fondly wished them well.

Clara used her sleeve to wipe the dripping water from her face as Aveline rode up. She dismounted, nodding at Clara, and draped Drake's reins over the nearest fence post. She then turned to greet Hubert, who was wagging his stumpy tail politely at her. She pulled a strip of beef jerky from her pocket and offered it to him, and he delicately took it. With another wag of his tail, he retired to the shade of the barn to gnaw his treat. Aveline smiled.

"You're his favorite visitor, Aveline," Clara commented. "No one else ever brings him presents."

"I've never seen another dog like him," Aveline answered. "He's smart. I'd deputize him if I could get away with it."

"Not so sure Donnic would like that," Clara said. "He might take it personally."

"No, he wouldn't mind, I bet. Give him someone to stare at all day besides me."

"Aveline, I'm pretty sure he enjoys staring at you all day," Clara said without thinking.

Aveline's head jerked up and she glared at Clara suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Clara shrugged as innocently as she could. "Well, he seems to like you. Don't you ever wonder what could happen?"

Aveline frowned. "I'm his _superior_. Nothing is going to happen. It would be…unethical."

"There's nothing unethical about it," Clara argued. "You might want to consider it before someone else snatches him up."

"Someone like you?" Aveline's eyes had narrowed; her tone was sharp.

Clara raised a hand in a gesture of peace. "No," she said gently. "I have no feelings for Donnic, Aveline. Are you sure you don't?"

Aveline sighed. "Shit. I don't know," she said. "Even if I did, it wouldn't matter. I don't want either of us distracted from our jobs. Which is what I've come here to talk to you about."

"All right. Talk then."

"I'm here," Aveline said, "to tell you that I've closed the investigation on Fergus. I've ruled it an accident."

Clara nodded slowly. "I expected that."

"Donnic and I searched the area where he was found," Aveline continued. "There were no suspicious tracks, including animal tracks, so I still don't know what scared his horse, if anything. It just appears that he was thrown, somehow, and his head hit a rock when he landed. There are many rocks along that part of the road, not unusual at all. Just bad luck all around."

She paused a moment, then said in a softer tone, "This was in his pocket. He was apparently returning from buying it in Denerim when the accident happened. I returned all of his other personal effects to his parents, but I suppose this really belongs to you." She had taken a small box from her pocket as she spoke and now handed it to Clara.

Clara opened it slowly, somehow knowing what she was going to find. "My wedding ring," she murmured. The dainty gold ring glinted in the sun and Clara snapped the box shut quickly. She thrust it back at Aveline. "I can't keep that. Give it back to his parents."

"I can't. They've left," answered Aveline.

"Left where?"

"They've gone back East. I guess I forgot to tell you. I don't know where, but I'll bet Varric does. I can try to ship the ring back to them, if you like."

"Please. I have no right to keep it, and I don't want to, anyway."

Aveline nodded and slipped the box back into her pocket. "All right," she agreed.

Hubert suddenly growled menacingly from right beside Clara. He had quietly returned to her side after eating his strip of beef. Startled, she glanced down at him and saw that his ears were laid back, his hackles were raised, and he was staring intently toward the road again. Apparently it was no friend who was approaching this time. Clara shaded her eyes against the sun and peered in the direction Hubert indicated.

There were three riders coming, and Clara didn't recognize the horses. _Debt collectors, _was her first thought, and sudden despair threatened to overwhelm her. Fighting back panic, she took a few deep breaths, forced a smile onto her face and said brightly, "Looks like we have company. Let's go see who it is."

Clara waited at the end of the road, flanked by Aveline and Hubert. When the three horsemen drew close enough, she noticed that, while they were well-armed, all three were intimidating enough on their own. The one on the left was nothing short of massive, with a shock of unkempt black hair and a crooked nose. The one on the right was smaller, but had cold dark eyes that reminded her of a snake's. It was the one in the center, though, that drew Clara's full attention as he slid casually from his saddle and walked confidently toward her. Clara was wearing only one knife, a small one inside her right boot, since she didn't usually arm herself to work in the barn, and the sight of this man made her fingers itch to draw the blade.

He had bronze skin and golden hair, wore long and tied back from his face with a leather string. His _handsome_ face, Clara realized uneasily. There was a tattoo on one cheek, a dark, swirling design, and it added to the predatory aura surrounding him. He moved gracefully, like a tiger might, and Clara glanced down to see that he wore a gun on one hip and a long, wicked-looking knife on the other.

Hubert bristled beside her as the man approached, and Clara rested a hand on his neck to restrain him. _For now_. She was suddenly very glad that she had Hubert and Aveline there.

The blond man stopped before her, smiling, and bent in a theatrical bow. "My lady," he said in an accented voice as smooth as velvet. "You must be Miss Clara Hawke, the very one whom I seek. Rumors of your beauty have traveled far, and I am very pleased to find that they are nothing but truth."

"Who are you?" Clara demanded. She cursed herself for the quaver in her voice. Hubert growled again.

The man's expression turned wounded. "Ah, such hostility, and we are not even properly introduced! I suppose I cannot blame you for that. I assure you, lady, that you have nothing to fear from me, as I have come bearing the best wishes of my esteemed employer, Danario Chavez. My name is Zevran Arainai. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." He bowed again, with a flourish.

"You work for Danario Chavez?" Clara asked suspiciously.

"Danario, of course, sends his sincere regrets that he was not able to come himself, but a man such as he has many demands upon his time. I am more than pleased to be trusted enough to carry out this most important errand in his stead." His attention turned to Aveline. "And you are, of course, Aveline Vallen, most fair and capable sheriff of Kirkwood."

Aveline nodded once, and Zevran continued. "I met your deputy in town. Donnic, was it? A lovely man. A competent deputy, I am sure. Tell me, Sheriff Aveline, is Donnic the only deputy in Kirkwood? Do you not ever find yourself shorthanded in your duties of corralling lawbreakers?"

"No. Kirkwood is a peaceful town," Aveline answered firmly. "If I were to need assistance, there are plenty of volunteers in town only too willing to make sure it stays that way."

"Mr. Arainai-" Clara began.

"Please, my lovely lady, there is no need for such formality. Call me Zevran. Are we not friends, or soon will be? And after our business is concluded, who knows where circumstances will lead us?" He followed this with an appraising glance over her body, and Clara felt a cold shiver run down her spine.

"Zevran, then," she continued, determined. "What exactly is our business? I am perfectly capable of writing a reply to Danario once I have made a decision. What are you doing here?"

"I am here to close the deal, of course," Zevran replied, as though surprised at the question. "Surely there could be no possibility of refusing my employer's offer? Such an opportunity is very rare indeed. And Danario is anxious to have this matter settled."

"Why the haste?" asked Aveline.

"It is quite a sad story, Sheriff, indeed. You see, the president of the Bank of Denerim, one Rendon Howe – you must know him, do you not, my dear Clara, as he is about to repossess your ranch? He and my employer are not on good terms. Enemies, you might say. It's an old grudge, but very real, and both men are rather stubborn, if you ask me. Anyway, once the ranch becomes the property of the bank, well, it will be impossible for Danario to…acquire it. And it is something he wants very much."

"Why?" Clara demanded. "Why does he want it so much?"

"My beautiful lady, who can know what is in another man's heart?" Zevran replied, wistfully. "I know only that this is his desire. Now, surely we both grow weary of idle chatter." He gestured to the man with the snake-like eyes, still mounted on his horse. "My colleague Brekker carries the paperwork, already signed by Danario-"

"No," Clara interrupted.

A moment of silence followed, during which Zevran's eyes grew colder than those of Brekker. "My lady, I assure you, we have come fully prepared to conclude the sale of your ranch. Brekker, show her the cash."

Brekker pulled a heavy leather satchel from his saddlebag and opened the clasp. He tilted the satchel far enough for Clara to see that it was filled with money. It was more cash than she had ever seen. Steeling herself, she shook her head adamantly.

"No. I have not yet decided to sell. I am sorry you wasted your time coming out here, but I will sign nothing today."

Zevran's eyes bored into hers, holding her gaze as a viper would do to a helpless mouse, and now all the charm and good humor were gone. For a moment, the expression in the amber depths was nothing less than murderous. This was a man who was not used to being balked. Clara, her heart pounding in her ears and her hands trembling, lifted her chin and stared back at him. She very nearly released Hubert, so certain was she that he meant to attack her.

Suddenly he relaxed. His smile returned, a bit forced this time. "As you say, my lady," he agreed silkily. "Perhaps our visit was a bit sudden. Surely a few more days of consideration will make no difference. Brekker, Taliesin and I have taken rooms in Denerim. We shall retire there as we await your decision."

"I will send word to you there. You will not need to return." Clara thought for a moment that such an abrupt dismissal might anger him again, but he simply looked amused.

"I can see that you are anxious for me to be gone. As unaccustomed as I am to such reactions from desirable women, I will do as you wish. I do have one more small bit of business, though. I have a good friend who is a bit of a traveler. The last I heard, he may have been headed this way. I would greatly enjoy seeing him again, and I wonder, has he been here? You would know him by his white hair and many scars. His name is Fenris Jones."

_You are a damned fool. _Fenris' angry snarl echoed through her memory. She could still see his green eyes, full of rage and something else she couldn't name, and suddenly she remembered the shaman Marethari's words regarding the mysterious wolf. _Befriend or betray. _

_Well, the befriending didn't work out, but does that mean betrayal is my only choice? _Clara decided that no, it was not.

"I haven't seen him." She had hesitated too long, she knew. Zevran's eyes narrowed.

"Are you certain?" he asked quietly.

"I said I haven't seen him," she repeated more forcefully.

His gaze slid to Aveline. "And you, sheriff? Have you seen my friend in town?"

Aveline's voice was confident. "There is no such man in Kirkwood." Clara released the breath she had been holding.

"Well, then, it appears our business here is done for now," Zevran said smoothly. "Miss Hawke, if I may, I would advise you against keeping Danario waiting. He is not a patient man, and he always gets what he wants in the end."

He mounted his horse, and as he gathered his reins, Aveline said, "The ride back to Denerim is a long one. I would advise you and your friends to avoid making any stops in Kirkwood."

Zevran replied, "As you say, sheriff." With a nod to both of them, he turned his horse and, followed by Brekker and Taliesin, loped west along the road, toward Kirkwood, and, beyond it, Denerim.

Clara and Aveline watched until they were almost out of sight before turning to each other.

"I'd better follow," Aveline said briskly. "I want to make sure they don't stop in town."

"Maybe you should stay here," Clara answered, concerned. "What if they stop somewhere and wait for you? You'll be outnumbered."

Aveline shook her head. "Donnic will be watching the other end of the road. No way he could have met that guy and not seen the warning signs all over him."

"Well, take Hubert then," Clara insisted. "You can send him home when you get there. I don't want you traveling alone."

"That's an idea," Aveline agreed, retrieving Drake's reins from the post and leading him back toward Clara. "How about it, boy? Want to go for a run?"

Hubert barked happily. Aveline vaulted into her saddle and began to turn toward town. "I'll send him back as soon as it's safe."

"I'll be in town tomorrow to get Teagan shoed," Clara said. "See you then."

Aveline nodded, and in a few minutes, she and Hubert were nothing but dwindling specks on the road to town.

Instead of returning to work in the barn, Clara went into the house. Shortly afterward, she reappeared on the porch with her father's Starkhaven rifle in her hands, and sat in one of the rocking chairs to keep watch until Hubert returned.

It was nearly sunset when Hubert trotted up to the porch, looking exhausted but happy. There was a string tied around his neck with a note attached to it. "_They are gone. All is well."_

Relieved, Clara went back inside to return the rifle to its rack.

* * *

><p>"Two hours, then, Wade," Clara agreed wearily, one hand on the door of the blacksmith's shop.<p>

"It might even take three," came the peevish response from the forge. "If you want quality work, you have to be willing to wait for it, and yours isn't the only horse in town."

_They're horseshoes, for God's sake, _Clara thought. _I'm not asking for a suit of armor._

Not wanting to argue further, though, Clara made a vague noise of agreement and slipped out of the shop before she was drawn back into a discussion on the day-to-day trials of being an unappreciated blacksmith in a backwards town. She had a headache, and she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, having been tormented by nightmares of a blond man with amber eyes strangling her over and over while she tried to sign her name with a pen that dripped her own blood instead of ink.

She rubbed her eyes wearily as she turned in the direction of the clinic. Maybe Anders would have something for her head, or at the very least, he would probably let her catch a quick nap in his clinic while she waited for Wade to be done with Teagan.

She had taken about two steps in that direction, however, when she bumped solidly into someone. She opened her mouth to apologize, but the words died on her tongue when she saw who it was.

Fenris Jones stood before her in the dusty street. He wore a shirt of faded denim blue today. She could see that it had been patched several times, and a few of the buttons didn't match the others. He held his black hat in his hands. When she glanced apprehensively up at him, half-expecting to be yelled at, she noticed with mild shock that his throat was covered with the same scars as his hands. Bright white against his skin, they wrapped delicately around his neck like clinging vines. His red bandanna, which had obscured the scars on the other occasions she had seen him, peeked out of the breast pocket of his shirt.

_How far do those scars go? _ She wondered faintly. _How did he get them? _She tried to imagine a knife slicing into the flesh of his throat, and shuddered.

"Miss Hawke," Jones said awkwardly. He apparently hadn't seen her reaction to his scars. His head was bowed and he studied the ground between them with interest. "May I speak with you?"

"Sure," Clara answered warily. "What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?"

"Sheriff Aveline told me about your meeting with the man who was asking for me," he explained, in a more confident tone. "_Zevran_. She said that you denied having seen me and then sent him away. I…wished to thank you for that."

Clara answered awkwardly, "Well, it wasn't that I sent him away as much as he agreed to go. And that was before he asked about you. I wanted him gone anyway, so I was hoping he would just leave-"

"Thank you, anyway." His voice was soft but it cleaved through her rambling quite effectively.

"You're welcome," she murmured.

Several moments of silence passed before she looked up at him again. He was gazing at her steadily, and his eyes held none of the fury with which he had regarded her in the Hanged Man. Feeling a bit confused, Clara asked, "You're not really friends, are you?"

"No."

She waited for more. When he said nothing else, she probed further. "So…how do you know him?"

Silence again. She watched his face, but there was still no anger. He looked hesitant, but then he finally answered. "I am a former employee of Danario's. Zevran was my…superior, I suppose you could say. I left on rather…disagreeable terms."

"And Danario feels that your business relationship has not been concluded to his satisfaction," Clara guessed.

"Exactly. And since I have no wish for any further dealings with him…" Jones shrugged slightly. "He sends thugs, and I run from them."

"He sounds very…determined," Clara observed, and he snorted. "How long have you been running from his thugs?"

"I left Danario almost two years ago. Sometimes I can stay in one place for a few weeks before they catch up. Once it was three months. But they always come."

"Sounds lonely," she remarked softly.

"I suppose," he answered uncomfortably, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Clara wondered if he was regretting telling her all this. She hoped not.

"Will they kill you?" she asked bluntly.

He didn't look startled by this question. His mouth curled upward in a bitter smile. "Not right away, no. Danario will want me brought back to him first. But after that…yes. I have no doubt that they will kill me."

She was silent. Jones suddenly sighed loudly and said, "Miss Hawke, I wish to apologize. This really isn't your concern, and I don't wish to burden you with-"

"I have a place you can stay," Clara blurted out.

Jones froze. Clara could sense that he was gathering himself to flee, like he probably did when he learned that Danario's men were close. And if he fled, she would probably never see him again.

"There's a cabin. On my land. It's rather isolated, and no one goes there anymore. I don't think anyone but me knows it's there. It's tiny, and probably filthy by now, but it has a real bed and it's shelter. You could stay there, as long as you wanted, and no one would bother you. "

He was already shaking his head. "It's very kind of you to offer, but-"

"Don't you get tired of running all the time?" she asked.

He stared at her, and she could see something in his eyes, some new emotion. She thought it might be yearning. "Yes, I do," he whispered.

"Well, then?" she asked, encouragingly.

"If I agree…then you must allow me to help you in return. I have no cash, but…I can work. Could you use some help on your ranch, in exchange for the use of your cabin?"

Clara had opened her mouth to insist that no payment was necessary, but this brought her up short. She was desperately in need of help on the ranch, and was in no position to turn down any offer as sweet as this. "I have found myself rather shorthanded lately," she conceded. "Are you accustomed to working with horses?"

"I do have some skills in that area," he admitted.

"It's a deal, then," Clara said triumphantly, and thrust out her hand for him to shake.

He stared warily at it, and Clara thought for a moment that he might refuse. But then he took it, tentatively, and when nothing horrible happened, grasped it more firmly and shook it. His hand was warm and rough.

"Indeed it is, Miss Hawke."


	7. Chapter 7

Clara very nearly frowned at the cards in her hand before she thought better of it. _Dammit_, she grumbled inwardly_. Another crap hand. Big surprise._

Schooling her face to impassiveness, she looked up into the golden brown eyes across the table, which glinted with amusement, though their owner did not smile. "Well?" Anders asked.

"I'll raise," she said, careful to let no emotion into her voice or expression.

"Not a good idea, sweetheart," he answered knowingly. "I can tell you have nothing. If you fold now I won't even collect on your offer to wash my clothes, even though it was your idea."

"Fine," Clara declared with a sigh, tossing her worthless cards onto the table. "I would have just given them to Bethany to do anyway. I know I'm terrible at cards. I don't know what possesses me to even try."

"Let me guess," Anders offered, gathering up the cards and returning them to a neat pile in the center of the table. "You like the anticipation. You want to take risks, but you don't want to go too far. You play with me because you know you're safe."

He gave her a small, slow smile then, and followed it with a wink. "I am a gentleman, after all," he added.

Varric snorted, and scooped up the deck of cards. "There's no gentlemen in Diamondback!" he exclaimed.

"Nope," agreed Isabela, "just rogues and thieves. Another hand?"

Varric's answer was interrupted by a crashing noise from the bar. The general buzz of conversation and laughter around the Hanged Man paused momentarily as heads swiveled toward the sound. Varric didn't bother to look. Instead, he placed his fingers to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut, as though he had developed a sudden splitting headache. "Bela," he muttered plaintively. "That girl is going to bankrupt me, one broken glass at a time. Or should I say, five broken glasses at a time?"

"Come on, Varric," Isabela answered. "She's trying her best. It's a hard job, and it takes time to learn."

Clara glanced toward the bar, where she could just see a small dark head bobbing in and out of sight as Merrill presumably picked up the pieces of broken glass.

"After two weeks, she should at least be able to carry a tray of drinks. You know I can't order any new glasses from the Emporium since Loghain died. We may very well be drinking out of troughs before the new shopkeeper takes over," Varric pointed out. He raised a hand to ward off further arguments from Isabela. "I don't want to think about it right now. Where is Leliana? At least if there were music, I wouldn't have to listen to the glass breaking."

"She must be running late," Isabela answered briskly, shoving another mug full of beer in front of Varric. "Have another drink and quit your bellyaching."

Varric obliged, and Clara smiled fondly at him. _Poor Varric_, she thought. _It's either put up with Merrill or put up with Isabela. I don't know which one I'd choose, either._

"Speaking of the hired help, Hawke," Varric inquired once his mug was drained. "How's it going with your new employee?"

Clara hesitated. "It's going well," she answered slowly. And it was, at least on a professional level. In fact, she had been very pleasantly surprised at Fenris' skill with horses, especially the younger colts. His slow, deliberate movements and soothing voice seemed to calm even the wildest of the youngsters, so much so that after a few days, Clara had let him take the lead in introducing the two-year-olds to halters, a task which she had never trusted to anyone before except her father.

"Define 'well'," Isabela insisted, grinning wickedly. "Have you had him up in the hayloft yet?"

Anders shot Isabela a look of pure venom.

"He's not…very outgoing," she replied neutrally, ignoring the innuendo. The personal interaction between Fenris and herself had consisted only of a few very short conversations regarding the tasks to be completed, or the horses themselves. He had said not one word further about himself, and all attempts she made to talk to him had been politely but firmly rebuffed. She suspected that he was hoping she would forget all about the conversation they had had outside Wade's blacksmith shop. _Not likely._

"Why don't you invite him in for a game?" Varric asked. "Surely the bunch of us aren't so intolerable, are we?"

"I have invited him," Clara answered. "Numerous times. My mother can't even get him to stay for dinner with us, and you know how hard she is to resist."

"Ah, he's _that_ type," Isabela sighed. "It's so worth the trouble of breaking through the stone when you finally release the fire inside…"

"It's just as well," Anders said loudly, as if to drown out Isabela's musings. "I'd much prefer that he stay away from here, and from you." He glared pointedly at Clara, frowning. "He's trouble. I think you're insane for hiring him."

"I have no reason to mistrust him," Clara insisted. "I hired him to work, and all he's done is work. You think I should send him away for something you think he might do? I need his help too much."

"Fine, don't listen to me, as usual," Anders waved a hand in dismissal. "Just beware of him, Clara. I've known men like him before. They can snap faster than you can blink."

Clara's mind recalled then an incident that had taken place a few days before, when she had touched Fenris on the back as she leaned past him to grasp Teagan's bridle off its hook on the wall. He had been in the tack room, polishing saddles, and apparently hadn't heard her as she approached. It was a light touch, just below his shoulder blade, to let him know she was there. He had flinched, and a moment later she had found herself pressed against the tack room wall by a solid forearm across her throat. She had frozen in place, shocked, bridle dangling forgotten from her hand. After a moment, recognition had dawned in his blazing eyes, and he had dropped his gaze, released her, muttered an apology, and disappeared from the tack room.

_Remember never to tell Anders about that. He would no doubt consider it a murder attempt. _A moment later, Clara's thoughts on Fenris were interrupted by Isabela's concerned voice. "Leliana? Are you all right?"

Clara looked up to see the pretty redhead striding toward their table briskly, with Aveline in tow. Leliana's forehead was creased with worry, and she was dressed in a plain button-up shirt, pants, and boots, not at all like the dresses and fancy shoes she wore when performing.

"We need your help," Leliana announced to the table when she reached them. "Alistair has gone missing!"

"Who is Alistair, sweetling?" asked Isabela, pushing out a chair with her foot and gesturing Leliana toward it.

"Alistair," Leliana repeated, ignoring the offer of a seat, "is old Loghain's nephew. He lives in Antiva, and since he's Loghain's only living relative, he's inherited Black's Emporium. He was, _is_, moving here to take over the store. But he's never arrived."

"So? How do you know this guy?" Varric inquired. "I never saw you exchange two words with old Loghain while he was alive."

"Alistair is my fiancé," Leliana revealed. At the various expressions of surprise around the table, she added, "I met him in Denerim, when he was there once making a delivery. After that, we used to meet there all the time, so neither of us would have to travel the entire way between here and Antiva." She smiled dreamily. "We were going to announce our engagement when he arrived, but…"

"I should have known," Isabela said wonderingly. "You've been doing a lot more than shopping in Denerim!"

"Our wedding is in two weeks," Leliana informed them. "And now I'm afraid that something awful has happened!"

Aveline stepped up and put a comforting hand on Leliana's shoulder. "Alistair sent Leliana a letter telling her when he would be here. He was due two days ago. Donnic just returned from Denerim himself this morning, and he hasn't seen Alistair, either in town or on the road."

"So, why are we assuming something terrible has happened?" asked Varric reasonably. "Maybe his horse threw a shoe, or his wagon wheel broke. There's not necessarily a tragedy here."

"For the past two nights, I've had…dreams," Leliana said quietly. She glanced around the table as though expecting them to scoff at her. None of them did. "Bad dreams, with Alistair in danger. I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt him. He is the sweetest, kindest man I have ever met, and he has no enemies that I know of. But I know something has happened, and I need to find him!"

"We're leaving in the morning to go and look for him," Aveline said. "I thought we could use some help, in case he's found trouble."

"I'll come with you," Clara volunteered, and Isabela nodded her agreement.

"If you're going, Bela, I'd better stay," Varric said. "If I don't, there's not likely to be a building here when we get back." He glanced pointedly at the bar, where Merrill was filling a pitcher. She saw him looking and tried to wave, almost dropping the pitcher before recovering herself.

"I'd better come too, then," Anders sighed. "Plans like these usually end up with someone getting hurt. Clara might shoot herself in the foot."

"Thank you all," Leliana said gratefully, a small smile curving her lips. "Alistair means the world to me, he's a wonderful man. I'll meet you in the morning. I'm going to the church now to pray for his safety. Father Vael said he would wait up for me. Good night!"

* * *

><p>The predawn light infused the dewy grass with a frosted sheen, and the light breeze Clara felt as she left the house and headed toward the barn promised a clear, warm day. She adjusted her pack on her shoulder more comfortably, still in awe of Elthina, as always. Clara had come home at nearly midnight the night before, announcing her intentions to leave at dawn, and still Elthina had presented her with several days' worth of fresh traveling food and baked treats, all wrapped up in neat little packages. Judging from the weight of the bundles, there would be enough for her companions, as well. <em>I don't know how she does it, but I hope to God we never lose her, for the sake of everyone's stomachs. <em>

As she approached the barn, a frown creased her forehead. _Did I leave the barn door open last night? _She was almost certain she had closed it, but had been known to forget on other occasions in the past, usually when she was too tired to do anything but trudge to the house and collapse in her bed. She didn't remember being _that_ tired last night…

She stopped in the doorway, surprised. Fenris Jones stood inside the dim barn, in a golden pool of lamplight. Beside him was the white Dalish mare, her head lowered and her stance relaxed as she contentedly accepted Fenris' attentions.

Clara felt a stab of envy (_envy! For a horse!) _as she watched Fenris' large hands firmly stroke the mare's graceful neck. He twined his fingers through her mane, and Clara couldn't help but wonder what his hands would feel like in her own hair. Or on her skin. _Callused and rough, I'd bet, but warm. _ He was murmuring to her as well, leaning against her intimately as he whispered softly into her twitching ear. His expression was gentle, as admiring as a lover's. Mesmerized, Clara leaned forward to see if she could catch any words.

Hubert suddenly barked from outside the barn, and the spell was broken. Fenris straightened and turned toward the doorway. Seeing Clara, he nodded stiffly and murmured, "Good morning."

"Morning," Clara responded, clearing her throat uncomfortably. "You're here early."

"I couldn't sleep."

She nodded, and then asked curiously, "Were you just speaking…Spanish?"

He smiled slightly. "No. Dalish."

Surprised, Clara asked, "You can speak Dalish? How?"

"I can only speak a little," he clarified. "My mother taught me all that she knew, but that wasn't much."

"Your mother was…"

"No. It was my father who was Dalish. Or, at least, my mother said he was." Fenris turned uncomfortably away from her then, and, pulling an oval brush out of his back pocket, resumed brushing the white mare's already gleaming coat.

"I'm, uh, I'm glad you're here, actually," Clara stammered, placing her knapsack on the floor and heading toward Teagan's stall. "I was going to leave you a note, but since you're here now, I won't have to."

He glanced at her as he continued to brush the mare, patiently waiting for her to continue.

"Someone has gone missing, and Aveline asked for help in finding him," she explained, "so I'll be gone with the search party for a few days. The guy seems to have disappeared somewhere between Antiva and Denerim, assuming he left Antiva at all. So, if we start looking-"

"I would go with you, if you would allow it."

Clara turned, surprised by him yet again. "You want to go?"

"I am a good tracker and a good shot with a rifle. These skills may come in handy in a search party, or a rescue mission, if it comes to that."

As she nodded her agreement, Fenris added, "Of course, to accompany you I would require the loan of a horse. And a gun, if you please."

Clara smiled. "Well, you are in luck, Mr. Jones. It just so happens that I have a few extra horses lying around here. How about that one?" She pointed behind Fenris, to the white Dalish mare.

Fenris turned back to her disbelievingly. "This…? You can't be serious."

"Why not? She obviously likes you, and unless I'm sadly mistaken, the feeling's mutual."

Fenris frowned. "She is far too valuable for…and she has never been ridden…never worn a saddle…"

Clara shrugged. "Somehow, I don't think she'll have a problem with that. Now go ahead. Bethany's small riding saddle ought to fit her nicely."

It did. Fenris saddled her hesitantly, but the Dalish mare accepted the saddle as docilely as ever. So too with the bridle. It was as though she had worn tack her entire life. Fenris shook his head in amazement, and then glanced at Clara uncertainly, as though afraid she would rescind her offer.

"Go ahead, Fenris," Clara encouraged him. "Take her outside. I'll be out as soon as I get Teagan ready."

Leaving the barn a few minutes later with Teagan, Clara was greeted by the sight of Fenris and the mare galloping together over the dewy grass. She had to stop to admire the spectacle. The first rays of dawn were peeking over the horizon, and the mare's coat was positively glowing in the light. Clara thought she had never seen a horse and rider move together with such grace as these two did.

"They make quite a pair, don't they, Teagan?" Clara asked softly.

Fenris had seen her, and brought the mare back to the barn where she waited. When they came to a stop, Fenris flashed a brilliant smile at her. Clara realized it was the first time she had ever seen him truly smile, and the pure joy in it made something in her heart clench. _God help me, he is beautiful, _she thought.

"So," he asked easily, "how about that gun?"


	8. Chapter 8

**_Heartfelt thanks to all those who are still reading. I get downright giddy when I see reviews! I must admit to waving my arms around wildly like Kermit the Frog. (Enchanter T.I.M. I'm looking at you!) Thank you all so much! And now, back to the program:_**

"We'll be a few hours, at least," Aveline said to Clara and Fenris, as she swung herself up into her saddle. "I'll check in with Sherriff Howe first, and then we'll be asking after Alistair around town. Do you need anything?"

Clara glanced at Fenris, who didn't respond, so she shook her head. "No, we're fine. Go ahead, Aveline. And good luck." She directed the last comment at Leliana, who acknowledged with a small nod.

Anders was the last of them to leave the small camp. He shot Clara a dark look as he turned his horse to follow Aveline, Leliana, and Isabela. _I highly disapprove of you staying here alone with him. _Clara could hear his voice in her head as clearly as if he had actually spoken. Then he too was gone.

_I suppose it hasn't occurred to Anders that I am already alone with him all day, every day, on the ranch. But, then again, on the ranch there isn't a handy river nearby where he can dispose of my body after he's killed me. _She turned her head to look at Fenris, lounging with his back against a tree, eyes closed. He was still, except for his hair fluttering softly in the breeze. Beyond him, Clara could see glints of sunlight reflected off the river peeking through the trees.

_What am I going to do about Anders? _He alone, of all her companions, harbored such an irrational dislike of Fenris that sometimes Clara worried about what he might do. The rest of them had accepted his presence easily enough, even Aveline who was naturally suspicious of strangers. And surely Isabela could spot a scoundrel when she met one. Leliana was too worried about Alistair to pay him much attention, but she had been polite and even thanked him for joining the search party.

"Wonderful. Now you've _armed_ him," Anders had hissed acidly to Clara, taking her aside after she had arrived in town with Fenris. "I do wonder what has happened to your good sense."

"There is nothing wrong with my good sense," Clara had snapped back, exasperated. She had glanced at Fenris, waiting patiently atop the Dalish mare. He was adjusting the Starkhaven rifle in its scabbard, and didn't appear to have heard them. "Now leave me alone, Anders. You are not my _father_!"

Anders had ceased his comments then, subsiding into a rather sullen silence. She could ignore his pointed glances and accusatory stares easily enough, though. She tried to remind herself that he was only concerned for her safety, and for some reason saw Fenris as a genuine threat. Clara had no doubt that he had accompanied the others into Denerim only because he was in need of some medicine for his clinic.

_Well, enjoy the peace while it lasts, _she told herself. It was a beautiful, clear day, and Clara relished having nothing to do for the time being. This spot beside the Drakon River had turned out to be an excellent place for Clara and Fenris to wait while the others went into Denerim to look for Alistair. The glade they had found was not visible from any roads, and far enough away from the town that it was unlikely that anyone would stumble upon them here.

Clara shifted against her saddle, which was currently acting as a makeshift backrest. At the slight noise she made, Fenris' eyes opened. "I guess it's just the two of us, then," she offered lamely.

Fenris didn't respond, but Hubert did. At his insistent bark, she corrected herself. "The three of us. I humbly beg your pardon, ser Hubert."

He wagged his tail at this. Clara added, "There's a river right over there. Why don't you go take a swim, hm?"

Instead, Hubert lumbered into the woods and rooted around in the underbrush for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a large stick, which he promptly dropped in Fenris' lap. Then he whined.

"Hubert, where are your manners?" Clara admonished lightly. "You should always wait to be invited to a game of fetch."

"I would hate to disappoint him," Fenris said, rising from the base of the tree, stick in hand. "Come on, then. To the river with you."

Clara's intention had been to leave Hubert at home, although having the dog along on a search party seemed only common sense. Bethany was going to be staying at the clinic during Anders' absence, and Clara was loath to leave her mother and Elthina out on the ranch by themselves. Clara had briefly considered going to talk to Carver, but was saved by Aveline, who promised to assign Donnic to check in frequently at the ranch.

Clara leaned back against her saddle and closed her eyes. Now that she was alone, she found it easier to relax, and began to drift off to the sound of the wind whispering through the leaves overhead.

"Clara."

Her eyes snapped open, partially formed dreams dissipating like smoke. Fenris stood above her. She hadn't heard his footsteps as he returned from the river. She looked for Hubert but didn't see him.

"Clara," he repeated. "Come with me. There's something you need to see."

Clara clumsily rose to her feet and brushed some dead leaves from her pants. "All right."

She followed Fenris the short distance to the river. Once they cleared the trees, she could see Hubert, sitting on the riverbank, tongue lolling and wagging his stumpy tail proudly.

Fenris said, "I threw the stick into the water for him to chase, and he returned with…this."

On the ground before Hubert lay a human hand. Clara exchanged a horrified glance with Fenris. Hubert was positively grinning.

"Um, good boy…?" Clara said faintly. Hubert wagged again, and then trotted back toward the glade, leaving his grisly discovery in her keeping.

The hand was obviously a woman's. The fingers were long and fine, the wrist slim, and the fingernails had been painted with red lacquer, which had chipped considerably. It looked…fresh. The skin was still firm, if a bit wrinkled from soaking in the river. There was a ring on the fourth finger, and Clara assumed it was a wedding band. The hand had been the woman's left.

"I wonder…where is the rest of her?" Clara asked. Fenris only shook his head.

Pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, Clara knelt in the grass in front of the hand. Trying not to look at the raw flesh and white stump of bone that protruded from the severed wrist, she wrapped the kerchief around the hand and lifted it. Her stomach lurched at the thought of touching the wrinkled skin. Then she began to carefully work the ring off the dead finger.

The fingers were slightly swollen, so it took more force than Clara expected, but the ring finally slid free of the finger, and Clara immediately dropped the hand, shuddering. She wiped the ring dry on a corner of the kerchief, and then held it up in the sunlight.

"'_Forever faithful, forever yours',"_ Clara read the tiny inscription. No names. Nothing to hint at the woman's identity.

Clara's eyes searched the river, as though expecting to see the rest of the woman's body floating by with the current. There was nothing except light-dappled flowing water and a few dragonflies.

"Well, we can keep the ring," Clara mused. "We can ask about it in town the next time we're there. Maybe we'll find someone who recognizes it. But, the hand…" She shrugged. "I guess we should bury it. Or, maybe let Anders take a look at it first. Then we'll bury it. Sound good?"

Instead of answering, Fenris knelt beside her and began to wrap the hand up in the kerchief. Clara was immensely grateful that she didn't have to touch the thing again. When he had finished, they headed back to the glade to wait for the others to return from Denerim.

* * *

><p>The result of the search for Alistair in Denerim was apparent on the somber faces of Clara's companions as they rode back into the clearing later that afternoon. Clara stood and waited as they brought their horses to a stop and dismounted.<p>

"He hasn't been there," Aveline told her. "Not a single soul we asked has seen him."

Clara sighed. "So what's the plan now? We head on to Antiva, right?"

"Yes, Leliana would like to leave right now."

"Of course," Clara answered, with a nod to Leliana. "We've got hours of daylight left. We can get a fair distance yet today. There's just one small thing to take care of first…" She gestured to Fenris, who brought the kerchief-wrapped bundle forward as Clara told her companions about finding the hand in the river.

"Hmmm," Aveline said, inspecting the ring. "_Forever faithful, forever yours. _Doesn't sound like a common inscription. Perhaps if we can find the jeweler, we can find out who bought it. It's going to have to wait, though. You hold onto it, Clara."

Clara slipped the ring back into her hip pocket as Aveline turned to Anders. "Well?" she asked.

"It's a clean cut," Anders answered, inspecting the severed wrist. "See where the bone ends here?" He pointed. "There are no ridges or gashes in the bone, such as would have been made if a knife or blade was used. There's no tearing of the surrounding flesh from sawing back and forth. If you ask me, this was done with an axe. One chop went clean through." He wrapped the hand back up, and looked around at the slightly nauseated expressions of his companions. "Now let's bury this thing and be on our way."

Fenris had already dug a hole for the hand while waiting for the searchers to return, so the burial was completed in short order, kerchief and all. He and Clara were saddling their horses when Aveline gestured to them, drawing them a short distance away from the others.

"There's something else I needed to tell you," she informed them softly. "Zevran Arainai is no longer in Denerim. He left about a week ago, according to the owner of the hotel."

"Good," Clara declared. "He must have given up and gone home. I guess we could have come with you into town after all."

"It isn't good," Fenris disagreed. "It is always better to know where he is. It helps avoid unpleasant surprises."

"You think he's still in the area," Aveline stated.

"Zevran _always_ does as Danario instructs," Fenris answered grimly. "He came here for me and for your ranch. Thus far he has neither. He will not return to Danario empty-handed."

"Well," Clara sighed. "I guess there's not much we can do about him right now. Let's get out of here."

* * *

><p>"He's in love with you, you know," Isabela said, her voice pitched low to avoid being overheard.<p>

"What?" Clara asked, confused.

Isabela urged her horse closer. "Anders," she clarified.

Clara took a quick glance around. Anders was riding ahead with Aveline and Leliana, and Fenris was a good distance behind them. They were, essentially, alone.

"Why do you say that?" Clara inquired reluctantly.

"Last night, in camp," Isabela answered. "Anders and I took the second watch, remember? Well, instead of watching out for wolves or bandits, he watched you sleep."

"No, he didn't," Clara scoffed.

"He did. For the full three hours. He didn't even notice me noticing."

"Well, so what if he did?" Clara asked uncomfortably. "It doesn't mean he…"

She fell silent. Isabela gave her a knowing look. Clara shifted in her saddle. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

"Because you needed to know," Isabela sighed. "The question is: how do you feel about him?"

_Oh, Bela, what would you say if I told you the truth? And what would you say if I told you I would never allow it to happen, because I would rather die than take something for myself that my sister wants?_

"He is my friend," Clara said firmly. "That is all."

Isabela shrugged. "Then I pity him," she replied.

It was about an hour later that they found the dead men in the road.

* * *

><p>Clara was riding with Aveline at the front of the party. Anders had fallen back a small distance, but, thanks to Isabela, Clara imagined she could feel his eyes on her, though she didn't turn around to look.<p>

This part of the road was surrounded by dense woods. Clara knew the Drakon River flowed within a mile or so of the road here, and had heard that these woods contained bogs and even quicksand. Clara recalled a few stories, mostly from Varric, about a lake in the very middle of the woods where a witch lived, but she had never met anyone who had actually seen it.

"So these are the famous Korcari Wilds," Aveline commented, peering into the trees along the side of the road. "They don't look so bad, although I'd prefer that we get clear of them by dark."

"How far yet to Antiva?" Clara asked.

"We're about halfway, so another day and a half should bring us pretty close," Aveline answered. "I'm hoping we'll find a sign of Alistair soon, so keep-"

Aveline trailed off as she and Clara crested a small hill and a scene of carnage came into view.

Seven dead men and three dead horses lay strewn across the road like a bunch of discarded toys. Clara and Aveline stopped dead, staring, and in a few moments were joined by the others.

"Dear God!" Leliana whispered. "Alistair!" She jumped from her horse and began to run toward the nearest corpse.

"Leliana, wait!" Isabela protested, and Clara spotted a sudden movement. A man had been crouching over one of the bodies, and at the sound of Isabela's voice, stood up and turned toward them.

Aveline saw him too, and was off her horse in a flash, her revolver drawn and aimed at the man as she approached. "You! Stop right there!" she commanded. "Put your hands behind your head! _Now_!"

The man immediately complied. "Please don't shoot me, miss…._Sherriff_, I mean!" the man pleaded, his bald head glinting in the sun.

Clara dismounted and followed Aveline, and she could see a flash of white in the corner of her eye. _Fenris_.

"Who are you?" Aveline demanded.

"N-name's Gavorn," the man answered nervously. "Please, sherriff, I ain't had nothin' to do with these dead'uns! Found 'em all like this, I did!"

"What are you doing here, then?"

"On my way to Antiva, to meet the train. Wife's comin' home tomorra, and I gone to fetch her home." The man trembled visibly as he stared into Aveline's gun barrel, still pointed at his face. He was a short, stocky man, and Aveline towered over him by at least six inches. "Checkin' to see if any of 'em's still alive, I was, but not a one of 'em is."

"Where's your horse, Gavorn?" she asked.

"Right that way, ma'am," Gavorn answered, pointing toward the woods. There was indeed a horse there, almost hidden in the shadows of the trees. "She don't like the blood much, she don't."

Aveline holstered her gun. "Do you know any of these men, Gavorn? Did you see what happened here?"

"Not at all, miss…_ma'am_. Just ridin' along to Antiva, and I found 'em all just like this. Please…can I go?"

Aveline waved a hand in dismissal, already turning to inspect the bodies. Fenris, however, kept the Starkhaven rifle pointed at the short bald man until he had mounted his horse and was nearly out of sight.

"Alistair isn't here," Leliana declared with relief. "But these men…what on earth happened to them?"

Clara glanced down at the nearest corpse, whose throat was a spongy mass of congealed blood, and looked away quickly.

"They've all had their throats torn out," Anders observed as he approached. "It looks like the work of some large animals, wolves maybe, but I don't see any prints, do you?"

"Some of them had guns in their hands when they died," Isabela said, pointing at one such, at her feet. "If it was wolves, why didn't they shoot them?"

"Look at this," Aveline called from the road beyond the dead men. "This looks to me like a wagon track. It goes right into those trees." She pointed.

"Alistair would have been traveling with a wagon," Leliana said worriedly. "We should follow, in case…"

The sound of barking suddenly sounded from the woods on the opposite side of the road. "Hubert's found something, or thinks he has," Clara told the others. "Maybe he's picked up a scent."

"But the wagon tracks go this way," Leliana pointed out.

"Let's split up," Aveline suggested. "Clara can go see what Hubert's barking about, and you and I will follow the wagon. Anders, Isabela, if you would stay with the horses? "

A few minutes later, Clara, with Fenris silently following, found Hubert impatiently waiting a few feet inside the woods. When he saw them, he gave a short bark and began trotting deeper into the trees. There was no sign of a path or trail here, and Clara had to work her way through the underbrush, pushing away leaves and ducking low-hanging branches. _I hope none of these are poison ivy, _she thought. _If they are, we're going to be pretty damn miserable this time tomorrow._

The woods became darker the farther in they went. The leaves overhead were so dense that it was difficult to tell whether it was night or day. Clara had to call Hubert back several times simply because it was too dark to see him anymore.

After a long while, Clara began to hear the sound of running water, and a few minutes later, the trees thinned enough that she could see what lay ahead. _The Drakon River again. I hope we don't find anything gruesome this time. _

They reached a clearing, bordered on one side by the river, and by woods on the remaining three. In the center of the clearing stood a shack. Clara inspected it suspiciously. It was tiny, and very dingy. There was no light at the broken window, and no smoke emitted from the chimney. She could hear no signs of movement. It appeared deserted. Hubert, however, sat down in front of the closed door and whined softly. Apparently, this was, indeed, his destination.

Clara exchanged a glance with Fenris. He motioned her aside, and approached the door of the shack quietly with the rifle at the ready. Clara pressed her back against the wall next to the door as Fenris lifted a foot and kicked it.

The door flung itself open and Clara could feel it slam against the other side of the wall at her back. Fenris aimed the rifle's barrel into the darkness of the interior, but after a moment, lowered it. Clara peeked inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, she could see the shack was occupied after all. There was a man sitting on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. He did not react with any surprise to their intrusion, but she could see he was alive, awake, and watching them. One of his shirt sleeves had been torn off and tied around his thigh, and it was bloody. He either had no gun, or didn't bother to draw it. His short blond hair stood in disarray, and his face was streaked with blood and grime. He looked utterly exhausted.

Clara stepped into the small, dusty shack. "Alistair Theirin, I presume?"


End file.
